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¥IITERGrREEI, 

// 


PERENNIAL  GIFT 


1844, 


"  Let  not  affection  in  thy  heart  abide 

Like  spring-time  flowers,  that  wither  soon  away ; 
But,  like  the  Wintergreen,  if  tempest-tried, 
Green  and  more  fragrant  for  the  fierce  winds'  play." 

OLD  WINTER. 


EDITED   BY  JOHN   KEESE. 


ILLUSTRATED    WITH    SIXTEEN    BEAUTIFUL    STKEL   ENGRAVINGS. 


NEW  YORK. 
CHARLES  WELLS  &  CO., 

No.  56  Gold- street. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843, 

By  CHARLES  WELLS, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 

EXQHAN9I 


GEORGE  W.  WOOD  &  Co., 
Printers,  No.  45  Gold-street,  New  York. 


PREFACE. 


IN  presenting  to  the  public  our  offering  to  its 
native  annual  literature,  we  have  chosen  the  name 
of  the  Winter  green  in  the  belief  that  its  quaint- 
ness  and  simplicity  indicate  appropriately  the 
modesty  of  our  pretensions.  The  Wintergreen  is 
content  to  abide  in  the  shadow  of  the  more  ambi- 
tious denizens  of  the  woods,  yet  it  hath  a  peren- 
nial verdure  and  a  tenacity  of  life  that  make  it 
often  sought  by  the  curious,  even  to  the  neglect 
of  others  whose  claims  to  favour  are  more  ob- 
vious. These  qualities  may  typify  our  quiet  faith, 
that  hereafter  from  year  to  year  our  Wintergreen 
will  come  forth  cheerful  and  confident  of  success. 

We  may  trace  the  analogy  still  further — the 
plant  whose  name  we  have  chosen  often  winneth 
admiration  from  the  beauty  of  its  leaf — dark  and 
glossy — and  not  unprotected  by  spines,  that  im- 
part a  certain  degree  of  point  and  dignity  to  its 
aspect,  notwithstanding  its  apparent  lowliness. 


918165 


iv  PREFACE. 

Then,  too,  it  hath  the  reputation  of  possessing 
salutary  and  healing  qualities  that  have  made  it 
a  marvellous  favourite  with  "  those  afflicted  with 
all  manner  of  sickness  and  all  manner  of  disease," 
—  and,  alas,  there  are  many  such. 

Let  us  hope,  then,  that  we  may  do  justice  to 
our  prototype  by  humbly  ministering  to  the  moral 
and  intellectual  well-being  of  our  readers,  by 
soothing  the  restlessness  of  excitability,  checking 
the  waywardness  of  fancy,  and  whispering  comfort 
to  the  stricken  in  heart.  Let  no  one  reproach 
us  with  arrogance  and  say  that  under  the  garb  of 
humility  we  conceal  presumption  and  pride,  as  the 
old  house  of  royalty  assumed  the  lowly  broom  — 
when  the  palm  or  the  oak  were  a  fitter  emblem 
of  the  illustrious  Plantagenet — for  indeed  we 
wear  the  Wintergreen  in  all  loyalty,  as  faithfully 
indicating  the  sentiment  with  which  we  start  in 
our  career. 

Many  of  our  contributors,  dear  reader,  are  mu- 
tual and  personal  friends.  The  brows  of  some 
are  already  circled  with  laurels  fadeless  as  their 
spirits,  which  can  never  grow  old,  and  their 
hearts  are  fresh  as  in  the  "  dew  of  youth."  These 
we  are  sure  would  gladly  lay  aside  a  chaplet  too 
foreign,  too  artificial  for  souls  as  genial  as  theirs, 


PREFACE.  v 

and  bind  in  its  stead  our  simple  garland  of  Win- 
tergreen,  inasmuch  as  it  hath  more  the  aspect  of 
nome — more  the  familiar  sound  of  wood  and 
fell — more  the  associated  melody  of  kindred 
voices  in  the  light  of  the  winter  hearth. 

It  would  ill  become  us  to  sound  the  trumpet  in 
behalf  of  those  already  known  to  the  literary 
world,  and  whom  we  have  already  proclaimed  to 
be  our  friends  ;  much  less  would  it  become  us  to 
speak  of  our  own  labours.  The  public  have  no 
care  for  the  machinery  of  preparation  ;  they  look 
only  to  the  results :  therefore  must  we  await  in 
silence  their  award,  however  solicitous  we  may 
be  of  success.  Yet  may  we  venture  to  hope  that 
when  the  time  for  cementing  friendships  by  the 
offerings  of  the  season  shall  have  arrived,  the 
lowly  Wintergreen  will  be  found  not  the  least 
attractive  —  suggestive  as  it  is  of  perennial  truth 
—  of  affection  outlasting  storm  and  chill,  and  of 
faith  coming  meekly  forth  from  doubt  and  peril ; 
and  yet  more  as  fostering  the  love  and  the  pride 
which  we  should  ever  feel  for  that  whose 
"  Sweetness  all  is  of  our  native  land." 

Such  are  the  hopes  by  us  cherished  while  bind- 
ing the  garland  of  Wintergreen. 


EMBELLISHMENTS. 


The  Doomed  Fairy. 
Illustrated  Title-page. 

Uncle  Joshua, ,..---    47 

The  Land  of  the  Cypress, 71 

Euthanasia, 98 

Henpeckery,  -----------  JOS 

The  Mariners, 131 

A  Portrait, 160 

Only  one  Night  at  Sea,  ---- 175 

My  Sisters, 193 

The  Managing  Mother, 196 

The  Mission  Bride, 209 

The  Eleventh  Hour, -  216 

The  Green  Old  Age,      -  -  221 

The  Mariner's  Orphan,  -  -  225 

The  Devoted, -  244 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  Doomed  Fairy— by  Mrs.  Seba  Smith, 19 

New  Year's  Visiting  in  Hades— by  C.  F.  Hoffman,     -    -    31 

The  Chaunt  of  the  Star— by  Jane  L.  Swift, 44 

A  Brief  Sketch  of  Uncle  Joshua— by  Major  Jack  Downing,    47 

Endymion— by  C.  P.  Cranch, 61 

The  Unknown  Portrait— by  H.  T.  Tuckerman,  ....    63 
True  Ballad  of  the  Wanderer — by  Anna  P.  Dinnies,  -    -    65 

The  Burial  of  Winter— by  Mary  E.  Lee, 68 

The  Land  of  the  Cypress — by  Samuel  Henry  Dickson,  -    71 

Time's  Trophies— by  W.  H.  Timrod,    -    - 73 

Herman  Schammer, 75 

Euthanasia— by  Willis  Gaylord  Clark, 98 

Lines— by  the  Editor, 100 

Suffer  Little  Children  to  Come  unto  Me — by  C.  Hunting- 
ton,    101 

Henpeckery— by  Seba  Smith, 103 

The  Grave  of  the  Lowly— by  Harriet  N.  Jenks,     -    -    -  129 
"  How  Cheery  are  the  Mariners  " — by  Park  Benjamin,  -  131 

Allan  Gray, 133 

Lines  to  a  Daughter  of  New  England — by  the  Editor,     -  158 

A  Portrait^— by  Amanda  K.  Clark, 160 

Tamina, 163 

Only  One  Night  at  Sea— by  Robert  M.  Charlton,    -    -    -  175 
Growing  Old— by  Emma  C.  Embury, 178 


x  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

My  Sisters— by  Amelia  B.  Welby, 193 

The  Managing  Mother— by  "  Ella," 1% 

The  Last  Man— by  C.  F.  Hoffman, 198 

The  Mission  Bride— by  Lucy  Hooper, 209 

The  Cherub's  Mission— by  Jane  L.  Swift, 213 

The  Eleventh  Hour— by  Mrs.  Seba  Smith, 216 

Stanzes — by  Emma  C.  Embury, 218 

The  Green  Old  Age— by  Jane  L.  Swift, 220 

Are  we  not  Exiles  Here— by  H.  T.  Tuckerman,     -    -    -  223 
The  Mariner's  Orphan— by  Hannah  F.  Gould,    -    ...  225 

My  Familiar— by  C.  F.  Hoffman, 227 

The  Dew  Drop  and  Lily— by  G.  Alvan  Howard,    -    -    -  238 
The  Pilgrim  turneth  his  Back  upon  the  world     .... 

by  Ernest  Helfenstein 242 

The  Devoted— by  Elizabeth  M.  Chandler, 244 

To  a  Sprig  of  Wintergreen— by  C.  F.  Hoffman,  -    -    -    -  247 


THE 


WINTERGREEN, 


THE  DOOMED  FAIRY. 

BY   ELIZABETH   OAKES    SMITH. 

"It  doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be." — ST.  PAUL. 

'Tis  a  blessed  thing  to  be  a  child 

In  the  freshness  of  its  life, 
While  the  sunshine  lingers  on  the  brow, 

Undimmed  by  care  and  strife — 
Ere  from  the  earth  a  single  ray 
Of  its  glorious  light  hath  passed  away. 

For  things  unhidden  from  the  child, 

Fade  in-  its  after  years — 
He  reads  strange  language  in  the  flower, 

And  round  it  music  hears  ; 
The  bird  and  blossom  have  a  voice 
To  bid  the  pure  in  heart  rejoice. 


••'  .-.-T.HE   JWINTERGREEN. 

••!•    ••••      •    •  • 

«•  *  *.•    : :  «.  :/••.•„/ 

A  simple  child  one  summer  night 

Was  lured  to  listen  long, 
And  hear  each  petal  ere  it  closed, 

Breathe  out  an  evening  song  ; 
And  he  at  threescore  years  and  ten 
Remained  a  child,  as  he  was  then. 


That  night  he  learned  what  kept  him  young 

In  every  after  strife ; 
What  kept  him  hoping,  trusting  still 

On  to  the  verge  of  life. 
It  gave  one's  heart  a  thrill  of  joy 
To  see  that  gray-haired,  cheerful  boy. 


He  found  that  truth  to  every  soul 

Hath  teachings  of  its  own, 
Mysterious,  binding,  earnest  things, 

Revealed  to  it  alone ; 
And  thence  a  cheerful  faith  he  learned, 
That  every  heart  for  goodness  yearned. 


That  all  the  creatures  God  hath  made 

Strive  upward  to  the  light ; 
Which  clearer,  broader,  fuller  grows, 

Upon  the  watchful  sight ; 
While  those  they  leave  in  doubt  behind, 
May  fearful  dooms  upon  them  bind. 


THE    DOOM  ED    FAIRY.  21 

Yet  they,  the  bridegroom's  chosen  ones, 

The  wedded  to  the  truth, 
In  bright'ning  pathways  onward  move, 

Renewed  in  love  and  youth ; 
And  holier  fervour,  faith  in  heaven, 
Rewardeth  all  who  thus  have  striven. 


The  stars  burned  clear  in  the  deep  blue  sky, 
The  moon  was  full  and  bright — 

On  every  beam  was  sailing  down 
A  spirit  robed  in  light. 

In  music  broke  each  quivering  ray, 

Heard  in  the  stillness  far  away. 


The  child  stooped  down  to  a  myrtle-tree 
Whence  low,  sweet  voices  sung, 

And  anon  a  thousand  glow-worm  lamps 
Were  out  on  the  branches  hung. 

A  fairy  troop  were  gathering  by 

To  hold  their  court  in  the  moon-lit  sky. 


Transparent  they  as  the  crystal  sea — 
For  spirits  may  naught  conceal, 

Their  holy  natures,  robed  in  light, 
All  inward  thoughts  reveal ; 

Then  first  the  child  began  to  see, 

How  dread  a  thing  a  sin  must  be. 


22  THEWINTERGREEN. 

Each  small,  fair  face  was  grave  to  see, 
And  he  marked  their  solemn  air, 

As  up  from  the  mount,  and  out  from  the  deep, 
Their  ranks  were  gathering  there. 

On  the  thistle  down,  in  the  keal  of  the  pea, 

And  in  pearly  shells  from  the  dark,  blue  sea. 


They  lowly  bowed  to  their  beautiful  queen, 
With  her  lucid  wing  and  brow  ; 

The  young  child  thought  so  fair  a  face 
He  had  never  seen  till  now — 

As  she  bade  a  fairy  stand  at  her  feet, 

Her  voice  was  kindly,  and  low,  and  sweet. 


Then  slowly  up-rose  a  little  sprite 
With  a  cold,  yet  saddened  air, 

Whose  wings  were  veiled  in  a  snowy  robe, 
And  lilies  graced  her  hair. 

And  through  her  pure,  ethereal  frame, 

The  wavering  doubts  like  shadows  came. 


Bright  rosy  tints,  and  thoughtful  eye, 
Bedimmed  with  shades  of  grief, 

That  only  in  that  upward  glance 
From  doubting  found  relief, 

That  questioned  of  the  Fairy  life, 

With  its  little  pomp  and  useless  strife. 


THE   DOOMED    FAIRY.  23 

The  young  child  bowed  a  listening  ear, 

And  word  spake  never  one  ; 
He  heard  the  tale  of  the  Fairy  told, 

And  staid  till  all  was  done — 
Of  the  pure  in  heart  he  thought  the  while, 
And  the  sunshine  felt  in  a  loving  smile. 


'Twas  said  her  birthplace  Pearlette  traced 

Where  old  Katahdin  stands, 
Lifting  his  hoary  head  to  screen 

The  work  of  Fairy  hands  ; 
Where  caverns,  lit  by  diamond  ray?, 
Are  bright  as  earth  in  the  noon-tide  blaze. 


She  slept  with  the  pearl  and  crystal  stone, 

Unsunned  and  pure  as  they  ; 
To  sprinkle  drops  in  the  rose-lipped  shell 

As  it  lay  in  the  deep  away : 
To  fill  the  diamond  moulds  with  dew 
Were  all  the  task  that  Pearlette  knew. 


The  queen  beheld  with  a  loving  smile, 
And  she  brought  the  lowly  sprite 

From  the  cavern  forth  to  the  upper  air, 
Where  the  blossoms  bathe  in  light. 

To  the  gladsome  earth  'twas  a  gladsome  ray, 

That  chased  from  its  breast  one  shadow  away. 

A2 


24  THEWINTERGREEN. 

All  things  that  the  pretty  Pearlette  loved 
More  lovely  seemed  to  grow ; 

The  flower's  bloom  of  a  fairer  hue, 
And  the  gem  more  bright  to  glow. 

The  rainbow,  touched  by  her  in  the  sky, 

Was  made  of  a  richer,  deeper  dye. 


The  cradled  sleep  of  the  smiling  child 
More  sweet  and  tranquil  seemed  ; 

For  Pearlette  kissed  its  bud-like  lip, 
And  the  little  baby  dreamed 

Of  many  a  vision  sweet  and  bright, 

Which  the  Fairy  brought  to  its  infant  sight. 


Alas  !  that  the  Fay  should  weary  grow 

Of  the  toil  of  Fairy  land ; 
That  it  should  spurn  the  needful  links 

That  bind  the  Fairy  band. 
That  the  elfin  feast  and  the  moonlight  glee 
Should  seem  but  a  fitful  mockery. 


Alas !  that  the  pomp  of  little  things 

Should  fail  its  life  to  fill ; 
That  dreams  of  love  and  higher  truth 

Should  keep  it  yearning  still, 
Unsated,  drooping,  and  apart, 
To  pine  in  loneliness  of  heart. 


THE    DOOM  ED    FAIRY.  25 

The  Fairy  queen,  with  a  saddened  look, 

The  altered  Pearlette  eyed  ; 
She  hoped  the  evil  would  pass  away, 

And  a  gentle  task  she  tried. 
She  sent  her  where  the  sunshine  smiled, 
To  tend  the  flowers  of  a  little  child. 


And  now  the  child  the  reason  learned 
Why  the  flowerets  drooped  and  died ; 

Why  the  small,  green  bug  to  the  rose-leaf  came, 
And  the  snow-drop's  petals  dried  ; 

Why  the  unbloomed  buds  were  withered  up, 

And  incense  crushed  from  the  blighted  cup. 


Wherever  the  doubting  Fairy  passed 

Dark  mildew  spots  were  seen  ; 
Unloving  tendence  had  been  there 

To  mar  the  blossom's  sheen — 
From  the  opening  bud  had  dried  the  dew, 
And  the  green  leaf  curled  wherever  she  flew. 


But  most  it  grieved  the  child  to  see 

On  the  snowy  lily's  breast 
The  darkened  prints,  that  plainly  told 

Where  the  tiny  footsteps  pressed. 
The  Passion-flower  was  crushed  in  its  birth, 
Alas !  'tis  a  holy  thing  on  earth. 


26  THEWINTERGREEN. 

The  gentle  queen  in  vain  had  hoped 
A  penitent  thought  might  spring 

In  Pearlette's  breast,  e'er  her  doom  was  told, 
And  she  fell  from  Fairy  ring. 

For  half  in  love,  and  half  in  fear, 

She  read  that  brow,  so  calm  and  clear. 


There  had  been  tales  in  Fairy  land 

Of  guileless,  gentle  Fays, 
Who  once  had  dwelt  in  caverns  lit 

By  the  cold  diamond  bl-aze, 
And  thence  had  found  the  upper  air, 
With  its  freshness,  freedom,  higher  care. 


And  it  was  said  those  glorious  sprites, 
With  beauty  strangely  wild, 

By  beings  of  a  higher  state 

Had  sometimes  been  beguiled ; 

And  thus  had  learned  dark,  hidden  lore, 

And  Fairy  customs  loved  no  more. 


And  these  were  doomed  from  Fairy  ring, 
By  laws  they  dared  to  spurn, 

In  listening  to  forbidden  lore 
That  made  them  fondly  yearn 

For  higher  wisdom,  higher  life, 

Apart  from  pomp  and  Fairy  strife. 


THE    DOOM  ED    FAIRY.  27 

Oh  !  sadly  drooped  each  rainbow  wing, 

To  hide  the  gushing  tear ; 
And  the  young  child  held  his  very  breath 

That  fearful  doom  to  hear — 
While  dirge-like"  voices,  sad  and  low, 
The  Fairy  doomed  to  a  state  of  wo. 

THE   DOOM. 

By  the  rainbow  in  the  skies, 

Glowing  with  its  morning  dyes  ; 

By  the  moon-beam's  silver  light, 

When  the  stars  are  burning  bright ; 

By  the  waters  of  the  fountain, 

In  the  cave  of  hoary  mountain, 
Whereso'er  we  meet  together, 
Pearlette  comes  no  more,  forever. 

Where  the  Arctic  streamers  glow, 
By  the  frosty  Esquimaux, 
Where  basaltic  columns  stand 
On  the  northern  icy  strand, 
And  a  palace  rich  and  rare 
By  the  ocean  rises  there, 

Never  more  the  doomed  one  may 

Seek  with  us  the  Fairy  way. 

Never  more  in  cavern  dark, 
Never  more  in  pearly  barque, 
Never  more  in  coral  bower, 
Never  more  in  starry  hour, 


28  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

By  the  bed  of  infant  sleeping, 

By  the  flower  in  dew-drop  steeping, 

Shall  the  sinful  Pearlette  dare 

With  her  sister  band  repair- 

But  the  knowledge  of  the  right, 
Which  the  spirit  dared  to  slight, 
And  the  truth  that  cannot  lie, 
And  the  thoughts  that  never  die, 
And  the  bliss  that  never  more 
Tears  and  prayers  can  back  restore, 
Shall  a  cup  of  anguish  bring 
Which  the  Doom'd  one's  lips  must  wring. 

The  glow-worm  lamps  are  out  and  gone, 

The  Fairies  all  have  wended  ; 
And  gleaming  brook  and  shadowy  branch, 

In  full  moonlight  are  blended  ; 
And  there  in  that  lone  stilly  hour, 
The  child  is  hid  in  myrtle  bower. 

Those  vestal  sprites  with  freakish  will, 

Creatures  of  stern  decree, 
Who  have  no  dreams  of  onward  thought, 

Nor  love's  deep  sympathy, 
Who  round  the  gem  and  blossom  play, 
As  cold  and  glittering  as  they — 

How  should  they  know  of  higher  things, 

How  judge  of  one  sweet  soul, 
Who  trembling,  fearful,  and  abashed, 

Bowed  to  a  new  controul ! 


THE   DOOMED    FAIRY.  29 

And  only  half  as  yet  had  learned 
The  blessedness  for  which  it  yearned  : 

Who,  veiled  in  secrecy  and  dread, 

As  fearful  they  were  sin, 
The  promptings  of  a  spirit  waked 

To  mysteries  within. 
Who,  casting  off  the  laws  that  bound, 
A  new  and  higher  duty  found  ! 

All,  all  are  gone  but  that  fair  one, 

The  doomed  and  exiled  sprite, 
Who  dared  not  lift  her  stricken  head 

In  that  cold,  cheerless  light — 
But  stood  with  wings  her  vision  hiding, 
Like  one  some  fearful  peril  biding. 

Awhile  she  stood,  one  moment  stood, 

But  who  the  pangs  may  tell, 
That  one  brief  moment  on  the  soul 

In  agony  may  swell — 
When  rayless,  friendless,  it  is  left 
Of  all  but  consciousness  bereft. 

One  moment,  and  her  head  she  lifts — 

Her  dreams  are  real  now — 
The  bright,  the  beautiful  of  dreams, 

With  his  calm  radiant  brow — 
All  love  and  tenderness  his  eyes, 
To  clasp  the  exiled  Fairy  flies. 


30  THE    WINTER  GREEN. 

She  lifts  to  his  her  meek,  fond  look, 
The  wise,  the  true  beholding  ; 

And  he,  unfaltering,  to  his  breast 
The  gentle  one  enfolding. 

Who  turns  from  all  of  outward  show, 

Undying,  earnest  truth  to  know. 

He  calms  the  doubt,  he  whispers  peace, 
While  love  and  truth  are  blending ; 

He  takes  away  those  sprite-like  wings 
From  her  fair  shoulders  pending — 

Those  freakish  wings  of  changeful  hue, 

That  every  varying  fancy  drew  ! 

And  then  the  child  with  wonder  saw 

A  higher  life  revealing  ; 
Sweet,  tranquil  traces  of  calm  soul, 

Upon  her  features  stealing — 
Those  elvish  wings  all  cast  aside, 
How  beautiful  the  Fairy  bride  ! 


"NEW  YEAR'S  VISITING  IN  HADES." 


BY  C.   F.  HOFFMAN. 


"  When  we  seem  particularly  dull,  the  reader  may  rest 
assured  there  is  always  some  deep  meaning  under  it." 

BRITISH  ESSAYIST. 

"  HAPPY  new  year  to  you !  Paris,  my  dear 
fellow,  where  do  you  call  next  ?"  cried  the 
dashing  Castor,  reigning  up  his  three-minute 
trotter  in  passing  the  handsome  Trojan. 

"  Why,  I've  just  begun  on  my  list,"  replied  the 
dandy  rival  of  Menelaus  ;  "  it's  not  a  long  one, 
however.  Society  in  Hades  is  becoming  so 
mixed,  that  one  really  must  be  particular ;  and  I 
visit  only  the  old  stand-bys." 

"  Right,  right,  by  all  means ;  I  don't  go  the 
new  nabobs  neither,  except  that  millionaire, 
Midas,  who  keeps  a  capital  cook,  and  has  plenty 
of  chateau  in  his  cellar.  But  who's  that  old  quiz 
in  brimstone -coloured  gaiters,  that  Mercury's  got 
under  his  wing  to  introduce  to  the  infernals  ?" 


32  THEWINTERGREEN. 

"  Some  modern  bore,  I'll  be  sworn,  for  they 
never  send  us  lads  of  life  and  spirit  from  the 
earth  any  more." 

"  No,  they  are  all  used  up  before  they  get 
here.  An  overworked,  spavined,  broken-down 
set.  But,  adios,  Amigo."  And  waving  his 
furred  glove  to  Paris,  in  the  same  moment  that 
he  touched  his  spirited  nag  with  the  whip,  the 
light  sulky  of  Castor  whirled  by  the  more  showy 
stanhope  of  his  friend,  and  both  were  out  of  sight 
in  a  moment. 

"  These  are  gay  youths,"  observed  the  stran- 
ger to  Mercury,  as  the  two  paused  upon  the 
curb-stone  to  admire  the  skill  with  which  Castor, 
at  full  speed,  wound  among  a  crowd  of  omni- 
buses. 

"  Are  they  of  much  consideration  among  the 
infernals  ?" 

"  They !  No  !  a  couple  of  extravagant,  dissipa- 
ted dogs.  Paris  affects  exclusiveness,  because 
every  body  cuts  him ;  and  that  horse-jockey, 
Castor,  has  run  up  such  a  devil  of  a  bill  at  every 
livery  stable  in  town,  that  he  must  open  one 
himself,  or  learn,  to  go  on  foot.  His  brother, 
Pollux,  is  of  the  same  flash  set.  Minos  held  him 
to  bail,  the  other  day,  for  provoking  a  boxing 


NEW    YEAR'S    VISITING    IN    HADES.     33 

match  with  a  Yankee  pupil  of  Fuller's,  whom  a 
steamboat  explosion  or  railroad  accident  had  sent 
quite  unexpectedly  to  Hades." 

"  You  receive  a  good  many  American  ghosts 
in  that  way,"  observed  the  stranger. 

"  Why,  yes,  confound  them,"  replied  Mercury, 
"  human  life  is  of  so  little  value  among  that  queer 
people,  that  they  keep  one  always  busy.  I  have 
only  to  look  in  the  morning  papers  for  some 
'  card,'  exonerating  a  railroad  company,  or 
steamboat  skipper  from  *  all  blame,'  and  I  am 
sure  to  find  a  troop  of  Yankee  ghosts  bargaining 
with  Charon,  to  work  their  passage  across  the 
Styx.  But,  here  we  are,  at  the  house  of  Pan- 
dora, the  first  woman  that  was  ever  made,  and  of 
course  at  the  head  of  society  here,  seeing  that  the 
fatal  box,  which  she  opened  upon  earth,  has  done 
everything  to  keep  up  the  population  of  this 
place." 

"  The  compliments  of  the  season  to  you," 
added  Mercury,  bowing  to  the  lady,  as  he  intro- 
duced his  friend  upon  entering  the  drawing-room 
of  Pandora  ;  "  what  a  beautiful  ottoman  !" 

"  It's  one  good  Penelope  embroidered  for  me. 
How  do  you  like  the  barbaric  pattern  of  these 
slippers  ?  My  husband's  friend,  Tecumseh,  sent 


34  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

me  a  pair  of  moccasins,  and  I  thought  Ulysses 
would  like  something  of  the  same  kind  to  wear 
about  the  house.  Have  you  read  this?"  con- 
tinued she,  glancing  toward  the  stranger  as  she 
selected  a  volume,  in  boards,  from  among  a  pile 
of  annuals  upon  the  centre  table. 

"  Ernest  Maltravers — no,  I  have  not,  Madam, 
but  I'm  told  it's  very  popular  in  Hades ;  yet  how 
a  genius  so  resplendent  as  that  of  Bulwer  can  de- 
light in  catering  for  the  taste  of  the  infernals 
•  ?? 

"  Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Mercury,  "  but 
here  comes  Plato,  who  is  more  au  fait  to  novel 
writing  than  any  of  us." 

"  It  takes  broader  shoulders  than  mine  to  bear 
the  weight  of  Mercury's  compliments,"  said 
Plato,  bowing  to  the  company  as  he  filled  him- 
self a  glass  of  cherry-bounce,  which  the  shade  of 
a  Communipaw  negro  presented  him  while  speak- 
ing. "  You  can  hardly  call  me  a  novel  writer, 
however,  if  that's  what  you  would  imply,  because 
I  have  tried  to  write  up  to  my  beau  ideal  of 
truth.  My  dream  of  Atlantis,  as  cavillers  so 
long  called  it,  has  at  least  been  realized  beyond 
the  western  main,  as  this  gentleman  will  bear 
witness." 


NEW    YEAR'S    VISITING    IN    HADES.     35 

"  I  guess  you'd  think  so  if  you  saw  our  en- 
lightened republic,"  cried  a  tall,  raw-boned  phan- 
tom, rushing  up  with  outstretched  hands  to  Pan- 
dora, who  shrunk  aghast  as  she  beheld  him  kick 
the  mud  from  his  shoes  upon  one  of  Chester's 
best  rugs. 

"  Why,  Major  Jack  Downing,  when  upon 
earth  did  you  come  down  ?"  exclaimed  all  with 
one  voice. 

'•  Upon  airth  !  well,  now,  do  tell — why,  that's 
a  raal  Christian  oath,  the  first  I've  hearn  since  I 
was  lynched  up  yonder  in  our  government  of 
laws.  I  rayther  think,  though,  that  I've  got  on 
the  side  of  the  majority  at  last,  for  there's  a 
mighty  heap  of  folks  here,  and  they  all  seem  to 
be  one  way  of  thinking." 

"  Rightly  observed,"  rejoined  the  moralizing 
Plato.  "  Death  is,  indeed,  the  true  asserter  of 
the  democracy  of  numbers  ;  the  agrarian  mea- 
surer of  each  one's  plot  of  land ;  the  loco-foco  of 
eternity.  By-the-way,  has  any  one  read  De 
Tocqueville  ?" 

Before  any  one  could  reply,  a  throng  of  visitors 
rushed,  with  clamorous  greetings,  through  the 
open  doors,  and  Mercury  withdrew,  with  his 
grave  protegt,  to  a  window  near,  where,  shaded 


36  THEWINTERGREEN. 

partly  by  the  damask  curtains,  he  could,  unob- 
served, comment  upon  the  company,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  stranger. 

"  That,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  lean,  unhappy- 
looking  man,  "is  Jason,  the  Argonaut,  whose 
health  has  been  nearly  destroyed  by  worrying 
anxiety  about  the  delay  in  the  South  sea  expedi- 
tion. The  gentleman  so  seriously  engaged  with 
the  pat£  de  fois  gras,  is  Lucullus,  whom  they  had 
up  in  the  Court  of  Sessions  the  other  day  for 
violating  the  statute,  by  having  quail  in  his  lar- 
der before  the  first  of  October.  The  grum  look- 
ing fellow  who  is  taking  the  tankard  of  beer 
from  that  black  fellow — whom  you  may  recognize 
as  the  ghost  of  Simon,  the  waiter — ir  Cacus,  or 
Caucus,  who  once  kept  an  oyster-cellar  under 
Tammany  Hall,  but  whom  the  republican  habits 
of  the  place  now  admit  into  good  society.  Those 
well-limbed  youths,  in  striped  guernseys  and  blue 
jackets,  are  Guyas  and  Cloanthus,  the  two  crack 
oarsmen  of  the  Castle  Garden  boat-clubs.  The 
old  fellow  in  a  Roman  toga  and  green  corduroys, 
is  Crassus,  one  of  the  heaviest  men  in  Wall- 
street  ;  and  the  thin-faced  man  talking  to  him,  is 
Evander,  who,  elated  with  the  success  of  his 
operations  upon  the  Palatine,  has  dipped  too 


NEW    YEAR'S    VISITING   IN    HADES.     37 

largely  into  Chicago  lots,  and  is  now  trying  to 
persuade  the  Parthian  jobber  to  embark  with  him 
in  a  speculation  upon  pre-emption  rights,  in  the 
Sac  and  Fox  territory,  just  ceded  to  government. 
The  wry-necked  man,  in  uniform  of  a  militia 
colonel,  is  Alexander  the  Great,  who  is  in  high 
spirits  from  having  been,  the  other  day,  presented 
by  his  regiment  with  a  pair  of  silver  pitchers,  for 
the  military  skill  he  has  displayed  anywhere  be- 
tween Union  Square  and  the  Battery,  during  ten 
years  of  patriotic  service  just  expired.  ^Eneas, 
who  is  just  taking  his  leave,  you  know,  of  course, 
as  the  pending  action  for  breach  of  promise  in 
Judge  Irving's  court,  has,  unhappily,  made  him 
too  notorious.  The  poney-built  fellow,  in  dark 
fustian  and  driving-gloves,  is  Phaeton,  who  lost 
twelve  hundred  dollars  lately  by  his  mare  slipping 
her  shoulder  on  the  Third  Avenue  ;  since  then,  he 
got  himself  in  trouble  by  taking  the  reins  of  one 
of  Brower's  omnibuses,  and  trying  to  run  a  man, 
called  Homan,  off  the  line.  His  sisters,  the 
Heliadcs,  were  sad  romps,  until  the  corporation 
cut  down  their  poplar  representatives  upon  earth, 
to  sober  their  vivacity,  and  get  rid  of  caterpillars. 
Ah!"  said  Mercury,  interrupting  himself,  and 
glancing  out  of  the  window,  as  a  plainly  dressed, 


38  THEWINTERGREEN. 

but  rather  aristocratic  looking  man,  of  about 
forty,  with  smooth  locks,  slightly  touched  with 
gray,  crossed  the  pavement  to  the  street-door ; 
"  there  is  Archimedes,  who  just  stepped  out  of 
his  new  locomotive,  the  Pou-sto  ;  he  is " 

But  here  the  Babel  of  talk  became  so  noisy 
around  him,  that  he  could  not  go  on  ;  and  mo- 
tioning to  the  stranger  to  continue  the  study  of 
character  for  himself,  Mercury  retired  to  arrange 
a  bundle  of  congressional  speeches,  which  had 
perished  and  been  dismissed  to  the  shades  as  soon 
as  born. 

Adonis,  the  Pelham  of  the  infernals,  was  talk- 
ing with  Pandora,  and  the  stranger,  in  listening 
to  their  elegant  twaddle,  could  not  fail  to  be 
struck  with  the  similarity  of  subjects  in  good 
society  all  over  the  world. 

"  And  so,"  says  Pandora,  "  Cleopatra  has 
really  purchased  the  whole  set  of  three  hundred 
dollar  handkerchiefs,  for  which  we  were  all 
dying?" 

"  There's  no  doubt  of  it,"  replied  Adonis,  "  I 
had  it  from  one  of  the  young  Gracchi,  who  told 
me  that  his  mother  was  going  to  introduce  the 
fact  among  the  notes  of  her  next  tract  upon  po- 
litical economy.  But  the  town  talk  is  now  about 


NEW    YEAR'S    VISITING    IN    HADES.     39 

poor  Thisbe,  and  the  splendid  dress  she  wore  the 
other  evening  at  Aspasia's  soiree." 

"  Ah  !  I  heard  that.  She  was  rehearsing  her 
loves  with  Pyramus,  after  the  party,  through  the 
chinks  of  a  brick  wall,  when  the  vibration  of 
their  voices  shook  down  the  bricks  and  mortar, 
to  the  destruction  of  her  beautiful  skirt." 

"  Such  a  thing  could  never  have  happened,  if 
the  infernals  built  as  they  do  in  Philadelphia," 
mildly  interposed  a  shade,  whose  fur  cap  and 
spectacles  set  off  features  strongly  resembling 
those  of  the  sage  Franklin. 

For  the  first  time  the  stranger  seemed  to  be 
moved  with  sympathy  for  a  kindred  spirit  amid 
all  that  crowd  of  phantoms,  representing  every 
age  of  the  world.  Plato,  at  the  same  moment, 
was  actuated  by  a  similar  impulse,  and  the  three 
embraced  together. 

"  Wisest  of  Americans,"  said  the  stranger,  as 
he  seated  himself  upon  the  sofa,  and  stroked  the 
brimstone -coloured  gaiters  of  a  leg,  that,  if  not 
stout,  was  comely  for  a  man  of  sixty ;  "  learned 
doctor,  have  you  seen  the  proceedings  of  the 
society  of  Copenhagen  upon  the  Norwegian  an- 
tiquities of  your  country  ?  My  young  friend, 
Winkle,  I  learn,  lately  read  before  our  club  a 


40  THEWINTERGREEN. 

paper  upon  the  subject,  transmitted  by  your  dis- 
tinguished compatriot,  Mr.  Wheaton.  It  is  re- 
markable, sir,  amid  the  march  of  mind  in  the 
present  age — it  is  pleasant,  amid  the  strides  of 
physical  science,  to  see  a  host  of  skirmishers 
thrown  off  from  the  ponderous  phalanx,  to  scour 
the  country  over  which  we  have  passed,  and, 
while  collecting  the  stragglers  that  have  dropped 
from  our  ranks  by  the  way,  strike,  ever  and  anon, 
at  some  neglected  off-post  of  knowledge,  and 
absorb  its  resources  within  the  mighty  stream 
that  impels  us  forward.  And  you,"  said  the  be- 
nevolent Pickwick,  rising  with  his  subject,  as  he 
caught  the  eye  of  the  admiring  Plato,  "  you,  ye 
leaders  in  the  bright  hosts  of  philanthropy — ye 
lucifers,  whose  morning  have  marshalled  on  our 
clustering  troops  of  feebler  stars — what  must 
your  feelings  be,  ye  broad-bosomed  philanthro- 
pists, who,  with  a  benevolence  that  compasses 
all  time,  have  extended  your  fostering  arms,  be- 
yond the  age  in  which  you  lived,  to  embrace  the 
kindred  spirits  of  ours — what  must  your  feelings 
be,  to  find  us,  amid  all  the  hurry  of  the  race  of 
knowledge,  still  pausing  to  kneel  with  reverence 
at  those  shrines  of  antiquity  which  your  names 
have  hallowed  ?  The  hoary  altars  of  humbug, 


NEW    YEAR'S    VISITING    IN    HADES.     41 

at  which  thou,  beloved  Plato,  so  lovedst  to  minis- 
ter, are  still  daily  gaining  in  their  votaries  ;  and 
though  the  mightiest  dreams  of  the  future,  in 
which  it  was  thy  delight  to  dwell,  are,  by  some, 
exchanged  for  shadowy  visions  of  the  veiled 
past,  yet  the  Janus  image  of  time-honoured 
humbug  is  still  the  idol  of  the  world." 

"  Well,"  interrupted  Major  Jack,  "  that  may 
all  be  very  slick,  though  I  don't  understand  half 
on't;  but  if  you  mean  to  say  that  everything 
upon  airth  is  humbug,  I  wish  you  could  only  see 
our  Niagara.  That,  I  take,  is,  to  say  the  least 
on't,  the  one  great,  etarnal,  overflowing  truth 
of  creation.  It  disappints  nobody — strikes  man 
and  boy  jist  the  same  as  being  all  it's  cracked 
up  to  be  ;  and  what's  more,  strikes  the  man  of 
sixty  afterwards,  as  being  jist  as  good  as  when 
he  was  a  boy.  There's  the  empire  state  of 

New  York  now,  with  all  that  water  power " 

"  Ought  to  adopt  it  as  her  emblem,  and  call 
herself  by  its  resounding  name,  instead  of  the 
pitiful  cockney  epithet  she  bears,"  exclaimed  the 
patriotic  shade  of  Franklin,  while  the  British 
antiquary  and  the  Athenian  philosopher,  bowed 
gravely  in  approval  of  the  suggestion. 

Hector,  who,  though  dressed  in  flaming  Texan 


42  THEWINTERGREEN. 

regimentals,  skulked  about  the  room  as  if  con- 
scious of  the  bad  odour  in  which  he  was  held, 
from  a  supposed  connexion  with  the  Chichester 
gang,  bustled  forward  now,  upon  hearing  the 
shade  of  M.  de  Champlain  drop  something  about 
Canada  affairs  ;  but,  just  at  this  moment  a  great 
commotion  took  place  in  the  receiving-chamber, 
and  the  infernals  might  be  seen  crowding  to- 
gether, and  raising  themselves  on  tiptoe,  to  look 
over  each  other's  shoulders,  while  a  whisper  of 
"  The  Indians,  the  Indians,"  ran  round  the  circle. 

"  By  the  hoky,"  shouted  Major  Jack,  "  it 
must  be  my  rebellious  countrymen,  the  Semin- 
oles,  for  I  saw  in  this  morning's  paper  that  Gin- 
eral  Jessup  had  sent  the  hull  tarnel  biling  on  'em 
to  the  shades." 

The  remarks  called  the  attention  of  every  one 
to  the  door — the  opening  in  the  circle  was  en- 
larged to  make  room  for  the  fierce  array  of  war- 
riour  spirits.  There  was  a  deep  pause  in  the 
courts  of  the  infernals.  The  portals  of  the  sa- 
loon were  thrown  wide,  and  the  ghosts  of  the  con- 
quered Seminoles  entered  in  the  guise  of  a  de- 
crepid  negro,  an  old  squaw,  and  three  half-blood 
children. 

The  peal  of  laughter  which  followed  awoke 


NEW    YEAR'S    VISITING    IN    HADES.      43 

me  just  in  time  to  hear  Betty,  the  chambermaid, 
exclaim,  as  she  extended  a  cup  of  fragrant 
coffee  through  my  half-drawn  curtain  — "  A 
happy  New  Year  to  you,  sir,  and  may  all  your 
good  dreams  of  last  night  come  true,  as  I'm  sure 
they  will  this  year." 


THE   CHAUNT  OF  THE   STAR. 

BY   JANE    L.   SWIFT. 

— "For  ever  singing  as  we  shine." 

I  DECK  the  night  with  gems  of  light, 

In  azure  realms  I  roll ; 
And  shine  upon  the  fields  of  space, 

That  stretch  from  pole  to  pole. 
Years  may  not  quench  my  glowing  fire, 

Nor  time  my  lustre  pale  ; 
No  regal  ornament  can  vie 

With  heaven's  spangled  veil. 


I  robe  with  beauty,  every  scene 

That  makes  the  earth  so  fair  ; 
There's  not  a  spot  so  waste  or  wild, 

But  I  can  sparkle  there. 
There's  not  a  stream,  however  lone 

Its  winding  current  be, 
But  bears  my  ray  upon  its  breast, 

And  gives  it  back  to  me. 


THE  CHAU  NT  OF  THE  STAR.      45 

I  look  upon  the  haunts  of  men, 

And  watch  the  turmoil  there  ; 
Immortals,  struggle  for  the  boon 

That  only  mortals  share. 
I  look  upon  the  grave-yards  then, 

Where  gathered  millions  lie  ; 
With  nothing  but  the  robe  of  death, 

That  earthly  dross  could  buy. 

I  mark  the  up-turned,  weary  eye, 

That  seeks  my  glittering  sphere, 
Unconscious  that  the  vales  of  rest, 

For  sainted  ones,  are  here. 
Perchance,  some  spirit  disenthralled 

Is  whispering  to  thee  now — 
I  see  the  smile  upon  thy  lip  ! 

The  light  upon  thy  brow  ! 

It  tells  thee  of  my  crystal  streams, 

My  blooming,  happy  bowers  ; 
Where  ever  verdant  foliage  screens 

The  sweet,  unfading  flowers. 
It  tells  thee  of  my  gates  of  pearl, 

My  walls  of  jasper  stone, 
With  lamps  unquenchable  that  have 

For  countless  ages  shone. 

It  tells  thee,  that  the  ties  of  earth 

Will  be  cemented  here — 
Although  death's  portal  must  be  crossed 

Ere  fields  of  light  appear. 


46  THEWINTERGREEN. 

Thou'rt  not  so  distant  as  't  would  seem 

When  gazing  from  afar, 
Ere  break  of  day,  thy  home  may  be 

Within  thy  favourite  star. 

Spirit  of  earth  !  each  glowing  orb 

Has  messengers  of  peace — 
To  hover  round  thy  couch  of  death 

And  bid  its  terrors  cease — 
To  catch  thy  struggling  soul,  when  falls 

Its  prison  house  of  clay, 
And  bear  it  on  angelic  wings 

To  heaven's  cloudless  day. 


A  BRIEF  SKETCH  OF  UNCLE  JOSHUA. 


BY   MAJOR  JACK  DOWNING. 


THIS  ere  picter  is  as  much  like  Uncle  Joshua, 
when  he  was  about  forty-five  year  old,  as  two 
peas  in  a  pod.  And  well  it  may  be,  for  it  was 
drawed  from  real  life  ;  and  there  aint  no  more 
nateral  picters  in  the  world,  than  them  that's 
drawed  from  nater.  I  well  remember  when  it 
was  made,  and  the  way  it  was  done.  It  was  a 
good  many  years  ago,  a  little  before  Gineral 
Jackson  was  elected  president,  Uncle  Joshua  was 
in  the  field,  one  day,  harvesting  corn.  He  was 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  for  he  always  worked  with 
his  coat  off,  unless  the  weather  was  cold  enough 
to  freeze  a  bear.  He  had  on  a  pair  of  green 
fustian  trowses,  and  an  under-jacket  of  the  same. 
They  were  all  made  in  the  family,  for  it  was 
against  Uncle  Joshua's  principles  to  wear  bought- 
en  things  when  he  could  have  'em  made  at 
home.  So  Cousin  Nabby  spun  the  yarn,  and 

c2 


48  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

Aunt  Keziah  wove  the  cloth,  and  cut  and  made 
the  jacket  and  trowses.  And  they  sot  as  well 
as  though  they  had  been  made  at  the  tailor's  ; 
for  Uncle  Joshua  was  such  a  well-built  man  that 
almost  anything  would  set  to  him. 

The  round  straw  hat  that  he  had  on  was 
boughten  ;  for  there  was  nobody  in  Downing, 
ville  in  them  days  that  understood  making  straw 
hats,  though,  since  that  time,  they've  got  to  ma- 
king a  plenty  of  'em. 

As  I  said  afore,  he  was  harvesting  corn, 
gatherin'  off  the  ripe  ears,  and  putting  'em  in  a 
basket ;  and  he  stood  by  the  side  of  a  stout,  tall 
hill  of  corn,  almost  as  tall  as  he  was,  and  he 
didn't  lack  but  half  an  inch  of  six  foot,  and  he 
had  hold  of  the  top  ear,  and  was  just  agoing  to 
break  it  off,  when  a  man  came  along  the  road, 
and  stopped  and  looked  over  the  fence  and  spoke 
to  him. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?"  said  the  stranger. 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  ye,  how  do  you 
do  ?"  said  Uncle  Joshua. 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  stranger.  "  But,  sir, 
will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  stand  just  as  you  are 
for  about  five  minutes  ?" 

"  If  there's  any  good  reason  for  it,  I  will,"  said 


A  BRIEF  SKETCH  OF  UNCLE  JOSHUA.      49 

Uncle  Joshua.  "  But  what  do  you  want  me  to 
stand  so  for  ?" 

"Because,"  said  the  stranger,  "you  are  the 
best  specimen  of  a  man  I've  seen  since  I  left 
York  state,  and  I  want  to  carry  home  your  like- 
ness and  show  to  our  folks." 

"  Well,  go  ahead,"  said  Uncle  Joshua,  holding 
on  to  the  corn,  and  looking  the  stranger  right  in 
the  eye. 

With  that,  the  man  pulled  out  his  paper  and 
pencil,  and  went  to  work.  I  was  jest  a  coming 
down  the  road,  and  I  stopt  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  and,  factorum,  in  less  than  five  min- 
utes he  had  such  a  complete  likeness  of  Uncle 
Joshua  on  the  paper,  that  I  thought  it  was  going 
to  speak  to  me.  And  then  he  put  in  the  basket, 
and  the  corn,  and  fixed  it  all  up  as  nateral-as 
life.  And  then  he  made  a  copy  of  it,  and  gave 
to  Uncle  Joshua,  and  bid  him  good  morning  and 
went  along ;  and  we  never  see  nor  heard  of  him 
afterwards.  He  was  a  queer  looking  sort  of  a 
man,  with  a  sharp  eye  that  seemed  as  though  it 
would  look  right  through  everything. 

Uncle  Joshua  carried  the  picter  home  and 
give  it  to  Aunt  Keziah,  who  sot  so  much  by  it, 
she  said  she  wouldn't  take  a  hundred  dollars  for 


50  THEWINTERGREEN. 

it.  She  took  it  and  put  a  glass  over  it,  and 
made  a  sort  of  a  binding  round  it,  and  hung  it 
under  the  looking-glass,  and  there  it  has  hung 
ever  since.  The  picter  that  the  man  carried 
away  with  him,  we  never  expected  to  hear  of 
again. 

But  last  winter,  when  I  was  in  New  York,  on 
my  way  home  from  Washington — for  I  do  go 
there  sometimes  yet  to  look  after  government 
matters  a  little,  though  not  very  often,  since  the 
GineraPs  time — I  rather  felt  it  my  duty  to  go 
last  winter  to  see  if  I  couldn't  settle  the  hash 
that  was  breaking  out  between  Captain  Tyler 
and  some  of  his  old  friends ;  but  I  might  just  as 
well  have  staid  at  home,  for  I  found  the  fat  was 
all  in  the  fire,  and  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
putting  it  out — well,  as  I  was  a  saying,  when  I 
was  in  New  York,  on  my  way  home,  I  stopt 
all  night  at  the  United  States  hotel,  a  thunderin 
great  big  tavern,  on  Fulton-street,  where  a  gen- 
tleman may  find  as  good  quarters  as  anybody 
needs  to  want.  And  while  I  was  there,  I  hap- 
pened to  think  I  promised  Cousin  Ephraim's 
oldest  boy  that  I'd  bring  him  home  a  book.  So  I 
just  run  round  the  corner  of  the  tavern  by  three 
or  four  doors  into  Pearl  street,  and  I  see  a  book- 


A   BRIEF  SKETCH  OF  UNCLE  JOSHUA.       51 

store  that  had  "  Collins,  Keese  &  Co.,"  up  over 
the  door,  and  in  I  went.  There  was  a  good 
many  in  the  store,  and  they  seemed  to  be  rather 
busy. 

I  didn't  know  who  to  speak  to,  so  I  called  out 
without  looking  at  any  one  in  particular,  and 
says  I,  "Mister,  have  you  got  Noah  Webster's 
Third  Part  ?" 

At  that,  there  was  a  slim,  wiry-looking,  brisk 
man  stepped  right  up  to  me,  and  says  he,  "  yes, 
sir." 

I  looked  at  him  with  one  of  my  penetrating 
looks,  and  I  see  right  through  him.  He  was  a 
sharp-eyed,  dark-haired,  dark-whiskered,  ner- 
vous-looking sort  of  a  man,  and  I  knew  in  a 
minute  by  his  motions  and  manner  of  speaking, 
that  he  was  as  smart  as  a  steel-trap.  Thinks  I 
to  myself,  you  are  just  the  chap  to  drive  a  hard 
bargain ;  but  you  needn't  think  to  get  round  me, 
for  I've  had  my  eye-teeth  cut  before  to-day.  So, 
says  I,  "  let  me  see  one,  if  you  please." 

He  stepped  to  the  shelf  and  handed  down  one, 
and  I  took  it  and  turned  the  leaves  over,  and 
looked  at  the  title-page,  and  examined  it  all  over, 
and  says  I,  "  are  you  sure  this  is  the  last  edition  ?" 

"Yes,"  says  he,  "I'm  sure  'tis  the  very  last." 


52  THEWINTERGREEN. 

I  examined  the  book  all  over,  and  see  it  was 
in  good  order. 

"  Well  now,"  says  I,  "  I  want  to  know  what  is 
the  lowest  price  you  will  take  for  this  book. 
Fix  your  price  according  to  the  times,"  says  I, 
"  for,  you  must  remember,  books  now-a-days  are 
dog-cheap,  and  I  know  all  about  it,  and  shant 
give  you  one  cent  more  for  the  thing  than  it  is 
worth ;  so  you  may  as  well  come  right  down  to 
the  mark  first  as  last." 

He  stared  at  me  as  though  he  had  got  hold  of 
a  customer  such  as  he  hadn't  been  use  to. 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  I'll  toe  the  mark  at  once, 
for  I  see  it's  no  use  for  anybody  to  try  to  shave 
you.  The  lowest  cash  price  of  that  book  is  two 
shillings." 

I  looked  him  right  in  the  eye,  and  I  thought 
he  didn't  look  stiff,  but  looked  as  though  he 
meant  to  fall  from  that  a  leetle,  rather  than  let 
me  go  away  without  the  book.  So  I  says  at 
once,  "  Well,  then  it's  no  use  for  us  to  talk  any 
more  about  it,  for  that's  rather  above  the  mark  ; 
it  isn't  according  to  the  present  times." 

"  It  can't  be  sold  for  a  penny  less  than  that," 
says  he,  "  not  by  the  hundred  ;  in  fact  that's  the 
wholesale  price." 


A  BRIEF   SKETCH   OF   UNCLE  JOSHUA.       53 

"  Well,  I  must  look  further,  then,"  says  I, 
turning  half  round,  as  if  I  was  going  away. 
"  But,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do  ;  I'll  give  you 
a  quarter  of  a  dollar  for  it,  if  you  are  a  mind  to 
close  the  bargain  at  once ;"  and  then  I  took  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar  out  of  my  pocket,  and  held  it 
up  between  my  thumb  and  finger. 

He  put  on  a  queer  knowing  kind  of  a  look, 
and  I  see  at  once  that  the  money  tempted  him. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?"  says  I,  "  for  I  must  be 
a-going." 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  you  may  have  the  book  ;" 
and  he  took  it  and  wrapped  it  in  a  paper,  and 
handed  it  to  me,  and  I  gave  him  the  quarter  of  a 
dollar.  When  he  went  to  do  up  the  book,  he 
laid  a  piece  of  paper,  that  he  had  been  holding 
in  his  hand,  down  on  the  counter ;  and  as  I  hap- 
pened to  glance  at  it,  I  see  at  once  it  was  the 
very  picter  of  Uncle  Joshua,  gathering  corn,  that 
I've  been  telling  about. 

"  Hullo,"  says  I,  "  where  did  you  get  that 
picter  of  Uncle  Joshua  ?" 

He  started,  and  stared  at  me  harder  than  he  had 
done  yet ;  and  says  he,  "do  you  know  that  picter?" 

"Know  it!"  says  I,  "I  guess  I  do;  it's  the 
picter  of  Uncle  Joshua." 


54  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

"  What  Uncle  Joshua  ?"  says  he. 

"  Why,  my  Uncle  Joshua,"  says  I.  "  Uncle 
Joshua  Downing,  of  Downingville,  away  down 
east,  in  the  state  of  Maine." 

"  Well,  there,"  says  he,  "  I  haint  been  so  glad 
of  anything  before  for  a  long  time.  I've  been 
trying  for  more  than  a  year  to  find  out  who  that 
picter  wras  taken  for.  The  painter,  didn't  know, 
for  he  ^,id  he  took  it  flyin',  as  he  was  travelling 
through  the  state  of  Maine,  and  he  didn't  ask  the 
name  of  the  man,  and  didn't  even  know  what 
town  it  was  in." 

"  What  made  you  so  anxious  to  find  out  who  it 
was  taken  for  ?"  says  I. 

"  Because,"  says  he,  "  I  am  a-going  to  put  it 
into  a  book,  and  I  wanted  the  name  of  the  man, 
and  some  account  of  him  to  go  in  with  it.  I'm 
getting  up  a  handsome  picter-book,  that  they 
call  an  annual,  and  this  is  to  go  in  for  one  of  the 
picters.  Now,  you  say  you  know  this  man,  and 
his  name  is  Joshua  Downing.  He  isn't  a  rela- 
tion of  Major  Jack  Downing,  is  he  ?" 

"  Yes,"  says  I,  "  he's  an  uncle  to  him." 

"  Ah,  well,  so  much  the  better,"  says  he  ; 
"  that'll  tell  well  in  the  book.  But  do  you  know 
Major  Downing  ?" 


A    BRIEF  SKETCH  OF  UNCLE  JOSHUA.      55 

"  I  know  a  man  that  does  know  him,"  says  I. 

"Who  is  that,"  says  he. 

"  Gineral  Jackson,"  says  I. 

He  looked  at  me  mighty  sharp,  and,  says  he, 
as  he  pointed  down  to  the  picter,  "  this  man,  you 
say,  is  an  uncle  to  Major  Jack  Downing,  and  is 
your  uncle,  and  you  know  Gineral  Jackson  ; 
now,  may  I  make  bold  to  ask  who  you  are  ?" 

This  was  coming  pretty  snug  home  upon  me, 
and  I  couldn't  very  well  get  round  it ;  so  says  I, 
"  when  I'm  in  Downingville,  they  call  me  Jack, 
and  Cousin  Jack,  and  anything  of  that  sort ;  but 
when  I'm  in  Washington,  they  call  me  Major 
Downing." 

When  I  said  this,  he  coloured  a  good  deal,  and 
he  put  out  his  hand,  shook  hands  with  me,  and 
says  he,  "  Major  Downing,  I'm  very  happy  in- 
deed to  see  you  ;"  and  after  talking  a  few  min- 
utes, and  inquiring  what  the  news  was  from 
Washington,  and  so  on,  says  he,  "  Major  Down- 
ing, if  you  will  write  me  a  little  short  history  of 
your  Uncle  Joshua,  to  go  with  this  picter  into  my 
annual,  I  shall  be  under  everlasting  obligations 
to  you." 

This  staggered  me  a  little,  and  says  I,  "Mis- 
ter, I've  seen  them  books  that  they  call  annuals, 


56  THE  WJNTERGREEN. 

and  I  don't  think  I  can  write  well  enough  to  go 
into  one  of  them,  for  I  aint  a  grammar-larnt 
man." 

"  Well,"  says  he,  "  Major,  you  are  too  modest 
by  half;  if  you  can't  write  well  enough,  I  don't 
know  who  can.  A  man  that's  lived  with  Gine- 
ral  Jackson  as  long  as  you  have,  and  wrote  such 
letters  as  you  did  in  the  Portland  Courier,  that 
went  all  over  the  country,  and  was  read  by 
everybody,  \vhy,  sir,  I  rather  have  an  article 
from  you  for  my  annual,  than  from  any  other 
man  in  the  country,  grammar  or  no  grammar. 
Now,  will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  oblige  me  ?" 

I  told  him  if  he  really  desired  it,  I  would 
write  him  some  little  short  account  of  Uncle 
Joshua,  in  my  un grammar  way  of  writing,  and 
I'd  go  right  round  to  my  room  at  the  tavern,  and 
write  it  before  I  went  to  bed.  So  I  bid  him 
good  night,  and  went  out. 

BRIEF    SKETCH. 

Uncle  Joshua  was  born  in  the  old  Bay  state, 
somewhere  away  back  of  Boston,  &  little  before 
the  close  of  the  revolutionary  war ;  and  that 
makes  him  now  not  much  odds  of  sixty  year  old. 
His  father,  Mr.  Zebedee  Downing,  went  a  so- 


A   BRIEF  SKETCH   OF   UNCLE   JOSHUA       59 

gering  in  the  revolution,  and  when  the  war  was 
over,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  move  with  his  fam- 
ily away  into  the  woods  down  east,  in  the  state  of 
Maine.  So  he  packed  up  his  wife  and  two  boys 
in  a  horse  wagon — he  hadn't  but  two  children 
then,  Solomon,  who  was  my  father,  and  Joshua, 
that  I'm  now  writing  about — and  he  drove  away 
down  into  the  state  of  Maine,  though  it  was  called 
the  district  of  Maine  then,  'till  he  come  to  the  end 
of  the  road.  And  then  he  worked  his  way  along 
through  the  woods,  and  round  the  pond  about  five 
miles  further,  and  there  he  found  a  place  that  suit- 
ed him.  So  he  hauled  up,  and  turned  his  wagon 
over  to  make  a  kind  of  a  house  for  a  few  of  the 
first  nights,  and  went  to  work  and  cut  away  the 
trees,  and  made  an  opening,  and  built  a  log  house, 
and  laid  the  foundation  of  Downingville. 

As  I  aint  a  writing  the  history  of  my  grand- 
father, I  can't  say  much  more  about  him  at  pre- 
sent ;  them  that  wants  to  know  more  about  him, 
can  find  more  o£  his  history  in  my  life  and  wri- 
tings, published  in  1834,  by  Lilly,  Wait  &  Co., 
Boston.  All  that  I  can  stop  to  say  here,  is,  that 
my  grandfather  died  about  four  year  ago,  very 
old,  and  very  much  respected,  having  lived  to  see 
Downingville  grow  up  and  flourish,  and  become 


58  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

thickly  settled,  and  his  family  somewhat  known 
in  the  world. 

What  little  more  I  have  to  say  now  must  be 
confined  to  Uncle  Joshua.  He  was  a  smart, 
healthy  boy,  and  grew  up  there  in  the  woods,  as 
straight  as  a  pine-tree,  and  tough  as  a  pitch- 
knot.  When  he  was  a  youngster  he  was  rather 
full  of  fun  and  frolic,  and  not  very  fond  of  work, 
throwing  the  greater  part  of  the  work,  when  he 
could  shirk  out  of  it,  on  to  my  father's  shoulders. 
When  he  grew  up,  however,  he  became  a  very 
industrious  and  smart  man,  and  soon  begun  to  be 
looked  up  to  as  one  of  the  foremost  men  in  town. 
When  he  was  quite  a  young  man,  he  was  chose 
moderator  of  the  town  meeting,  and  has  been 
moderator,  I  believe,  every  year  since.  He  has 
held  a  good  many  town  offices,  and  is  now  con- 
sidered  rather  the  head  man  in  Downingville. 

Uncle  Joshua  begun  to  take  an  interest  in 
politics  when  he  was  quite  young  ;  and  he  al- 
ways reads  more  newspapers,  and  knows  more 
about  politics,  than  any  other  man  in  Downing- 
ville.  He  was  ahvays  a  true  blue  republican  ; 
let  whatever  party  come  up  that  proclaimed  the 
republican  creed,  Uncle  Joshua  always  joined 
'em.  But  he  never  was  an  office-seeker  in  his 


A   BRIEF   SKETCH   OF  UNCLE   JOSHUA.     59 

life.  He  only  worked  for  the  good  of  his  coun- 
try. When  I  come  out  in  the  world,  and  went 
to  Washington  and  got  acquainted  with  Gineral 
Jackson,  I  got  him  to  appoint  Uncle  Joshua  post- 
master  of  Downingville,  an  office  which  he  has 
filled,  and  filled  honorably,  ever  since.  You  will 
never  catch  him  to  be  a  defaulter.  He  keeps  his 
accounts  as  true  as  a  hair,  and  forks  over  the 
money  to  the  government  regular  every  quarter, 
to  the  last  cent. 

Uncle  Joshua's  family  consists  of  himself  and 
Aunt  Keziah,  and  Cousin  Ephraim,  and  Cousin 
Nabby.  Ephraim  and  Nabby  have  now  got  to 
be  kind  of  middle-aged  people,  and  I  am  very 
doubtful  whether  they  will  ever  get  married. 

Uncle  Joshua  is  a  very  temperate  man,  and 
very  regular  in  all  his  habits.  He  never  joined 
a  temperance  society,  but  he  never  drinks  any- 
thing stronger  than  cider.  His  food  is  generally 
quite  plain  and  simple,  but  made  of  the  best  mate- 
rials, for  he  is  an  excellent  farmer,  and  his  meat 
and  grain  and  vegetables  are  always  of  the  best 
quality.  He  generally  goes  to  bed  at  night  about 
nine  o'clock,  hardly  ever  later  than  ten,  and  he 
never  allows  the  sun  to  be  up  before  him  in  the 
morning.  ***** 

D  2 


60  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

When  I  finished  my  sketch,  I  went  to  bed, 
thinking  a  good  deal  about  how  pleased  Uncle 
Joshua  would  be,  and  especially  Aunt  Keziah, 
when  they  come  to  see  him  in  a  handsome  book, 
and  his  life  all  written  out,  and  handsomely  print- 
ed. When  I  got  up  in  the  morning,  and  come  to 
settle  my  bill,  I  happened  to  think,  in  making  the 
change,  that  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  is  two  shil- 
lings, York  money,  and  that  I  had  given  the  night 
before,  for  Noah  Webster's  Third  Part,  exactly 
what  the  man  first  asked  me  for  it,  when  I  thought 
I  had  beat  him  down  twenty-five  per  cent.  I  felt 
so  much  mortified  to  think  he  got  the  weather- 
gage  of  me  in  the  trade,  that  I  wouldn't  go  round 
to  the  store  to  let  him  see  me  again,  but  sent  the 
manuscript  round  by  a  boy,  and  went  right  down 
and  stepped  aboard  the  steamboat,  and  started  for 
home. 


ENDYMION. 


BY  C.  P.  CRANCH. 

YES,  it  is  the  queenly  moon 
Gliding  through  her  starred  saloon, 
Silvering  all  she  looks  upon  ; 
I  am  her  Endymion  : 
For  by  night  she  comes  to  me  — 
Oh  I  love  her  wondrously  ! 

She  into  my  window  looks, 
As  I  sit  with  lamp  and  books, 
And  the  night-breeze  stirs  the  leaves, 
And  the  dew  drips  down  the  eaves  : 
O'er  my  shoulder  peepeth  she  — 
Oh  she  loves  me  royally ! 

Then  she  tells  me  many  a  tale, 
With  her  smile,  so  sheeny  pale, 
Till  my  soul  is  overcast 
With  such  dream-light  of  the  past, 
That  I  saddened  needs  must  be, 
And  I  love  her  mournfully. 


62  T  H  E    W  I  N  T  E  R  C  R  E  E  N. 

Oft  I  gaze  up  in  her  eyes, 

Raying  light  through  winter  skies  : 

Far  away  she  saileth  on  ; 

I  am  no  Endymion  : 

Oh,  she  is  too  bright  for  me, 

And  I  love  her  hopelessly. 

Now  she  comes  to  me  again, 
And  we  mingle  joy  and  pain  : 
Now  she  walks  no  more  afar, 
Regal  with  train-bearing  star, 
But  she  bends  and  kisses  me  — 
Oh  we  love  now  mutually  ! 


THE   UNKNOWN  PORTRAIT. 


BY  H.  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

IN  an  old  palace  by  the  Arno's  side, 

Rich  in  sweet  wonders  of  the  rainbow  art, 

One  portrait,  with  a  look  of  gentle  pride, 
Seems  to  invoke  the  gazer's  eye  and  heart. 

Dark  plumes  his  broad  and  manly  forehead  shade, 
And  in  his  grasp  a  jewelled  hilt  appears; 

Some  dream  of  hope  before  him  seems  to  fade, 
And  youth  to  wear  the  thoughtfulness  of  years. 

For  ardent  purpose,  in  that  noble  face, 
Is  tempered  by  a  mild,  reflective  mood  ; 

The  soldier's  pride  blends  with  the  poet's  grace, 
And  love,  o'er  courage,  dove-like  seems  to  brood. 

His  race  was  high  —  I  see  it  written  now, 

In  the  knight's  weapon  and  the  princely  dress ; 

And  more  than  all  in  the  uplifted  brow, 
The  stately  air,  and  smile  of  gentleness. 


64  THE    WIN  T  ERG  RE  EX. 

He  was  a  hero  —  though,  perchance,  his  deeds 
Fame's  partial  glance  swept  all  unheeded  by  ; 

The  clear  resolve  of  valour  warmly  pleads 
For  honour's  garland,  in  his  dauntless  eye. 

He  must  have  loved  —  I  know  it  by  the  thought 
That  o'er  his  youthful  bloom  a  shade  has  cast, 

Like  the  sweet  twilight,  with  calm  sadness  fraught, 
That  lingers  when  the  sultry  day  is  past. 

Methinks  some  being  fair,  with  love's  keen  gaze, 
Watched  o'er  the  limner  as  these  lines  he  traced  ; 

Time  dimmed  their  hues,  but  grief  nor  length  of  days 
The  magic  semblance  from  her  soul  effaced. 

O  frail  memorial  of  the  young  and  brave, 
Vain  trophy  of  a  human  brother's  lot, 

No  record  from  oblivion  thou  dost  save, 
But  that  he  lived,  and  loved,  and  is  forgot ! 


TRUE  BALLAD  OF  THE  WANDERER. 


BY  ANNA  P.  DINN1ES. 

A  MAIDEN  in  a  southern  bower, 

Of  fragrant  vines  and  citron  trees, 
To  charm  the  pensive  twilight  hour, 

Flung  wild  her  thoughts  upon  the  breeze, 
To  Cupid's  ear,  unconscious,  telling 
The  fitful  dream  her  bosom  swelling, 
Till  echo  softly  on  it  dwelling, 
Revealed  the  urchin,  bold  and  free, 
Repeating  thus  her  minstrelsy  : 

i4  Away  !  away!  by  brook  and  fountain, 

Where  the  wild  deer  wanders  free, 
O'er  sloping  dale  and  swelling  mountain, 
My  roving  thoughts  still  follow  thee  ; 
Where  the  lake  its  bosom  spreading, 
Where  the  breeze  its  sweets  is  shedding, 
Where  thy  buoyant  steps  are  treading, 
There,  where'er  the  spot  may  be, 
There  my  thoughts  are  following  thec  ! 


GG  THE   W  INT  ERG  RE  EX. 

In  the  forest's  dark  recesses, 

Where  the  fawn  may  fearless  stray ; 
In  the  cave  no  sunbeam  blesses 
With  its  first  or  parting  ray  ; 

Where  the  birds  are  blithely  singing, 
Where  the  flowers  are  gaily  springing, 
Where  the  bee  its  course  is  winging, 
There,  if  there  thou  now  may'st  be, 
My  anxious  thoughts  are  following  thee. 

In  the  lowly  peasant's  cot, 
Quiet  refuge  of  content, 
In  the  sheltered  grass-grown  spot 
Resting,  when  with  travel  spent, 
Where  the  vine  its  tendrils  curling, 
Where  the  trees  their  boughs  are  furling, 
Where  the  streamlet  clear  is  purling, 
There,  if  there  thou  now  may'st  be, 
There  my  spirit  follows  thee. 

In  the  city's  busy  mart, 

Mingling  with  its  restless  crowd  ; 
'Mid  the  miracles  of  art, 

Classic  pile,  and  column  proud  ; 
O'er  the  ancient  ruin,  sighing, 
When  the  sun's  last  ray  is  dying, 
Or  to  fashion's  vortex  flying, 
Even  there,  if  thou  may'st  be, 
There  my  thoughts  must  follow  thee. 


TRUE  BALLAD  OF  THE  WANDERER.         67 

In  the  revel  —  in  the  dance  — 

With  the  firm,  familiar  friend, 
Or  where  Thespian  arts  entrance, 
Making  mirth  and  sadness  blend  ; 
Where  the  living  pageant  glowing, 
O'er  thy  heart  its  spell  is  throwing, 
Mimic  life  in  "  alto"  showing, 
There,  beloved !  if  thou  may'st  be, 
There,  still  there  I  follow  thee. 

When  the  weary  day  is  over, 

And  thine  eyes  in  slumber  close, 
Still,  oh,  still,  inconstant  rover, 
Do  I  charm  thee  to  repose. 

With  the  shades  of  night  descending, 
With  thy  guardian  spirits  blending, 
To  thy  sleep  sweet  visions  lending, 
There,  e'en  there,  true  love  can  be — 
There,  and  thus,  am  I  wilh  thee  !" 

Months  and  seasons  rolled  away, 

And  the  maiden's  cheek  was  pale, 
When,  as  bloom'd  the  buds  of  May, 
Cupid  ended  thus  the  tale  : 
"  Over  land  and  sea  returning, 
Wealth,  and  power,  and  beauty  spurning, 
Love  within  his  true  heart  burning, 
Comes  the  wanderer  wild  and  free, 
Faithful  maiden  !  back  to  thee." 


THE   BURIAL   OF    WINTER. 

BY  MARY  E.  LEE. 

*Tis  winter's  burial  day  ! 

Watching  his  slow  decay, 
The  months  have  waited  on  their  aged  sire  ; 

And  now,  when  death-like  sleep 

His  palsied  senses  steep, 
They  wrap  his  chill  form  in  its  grave  attire. 

Awhile  they  linger  near 

Their  parent's  funeral  bier, 
And  give  full  utterance  to  their  heartfelt  grief; 

For  though  his  mien  was  rude, 

Arid  stormy  was  his  mood, 
The  old  man's  fits  of  passion  were  but  brief. 

Tall  March,  his  eldest  born, 

Stands  by  with  look  forlorn, 
Clothed  in  loose  garments  of  a  sombre  dye  ; 

Till,  spite  of  manhood's  strength, 

His  spirit  yields  at  length, 
And  speaks  its  wo,  in  wailings  loud  and  high. 


THE  BURIAL   OF   WINTER.  69 

Young  April,  timid  maid, 

Though  trembling  and  afraid, 
She  marks  the  heavings  of  her  brother's  breast ; 

Seeks,  'mid  her  gushing  tears, 

To  lull  his  boding  cares, 
With  whisper'd  hopes,  that  will  not  be  represt. 


But,  fetter'd  by  no  grief, 

With  cheek  like  fresh  rose-leaf, 
And  eyes  that  sparkle  in  their  depths  of  blue, 

The  zephyr-footed  May, 

Singing  some  childish  lay, 
Dances  o'er  bud  and  bloom  of  every  hue. 


Peace  to  the  good  old  man  ! 

Some  envious  hearts  began 
His  sway  —  so  just,  though  rigid  —  to  deplore  ; 

But  now  that  he  has  gone, 

His  virtues  let  them  own, 
And  count  his  garner'd  treasure  o'er  and  o'er. 


No  prodigal  was  he, 

With  hand  profuse  and  free, 
Wasting  the  wealth  which  Nature's  coffers  hold  ; 

But  for  the  future's  weal, 

He  braced  his  soul  in  steel, 
And  shut  his  ear  to  suppliants,  all  too  bold. 


70  THE   WINTERG  KEEN. 

Yet,  in  his  sacred  trust, 

Earth's  treasures  did  not  rust, 
But  earn'd  each  day  a  happy  competence  ; 

Till,  in  the  hour  of  death, 

E'en  with  his  latest  breath, 
He  bade  his  youthful  heirs  his  hoards  dispense. 

* 
And  be  those  children  blest ! 

For  nought  have  they  represt, 
But  freely  dealt  out  his  exhaustless  store ; 

Strong  March  has  scatter'd  health, 

Fair  April  lavish'd  wealth, 
And  young  May's  urn  with  pleasures  runneth  o'er. 

Then  pay  him  honours  due, 

And  shed  warm  tears,  though  few, 

Over  old  Winter,  on  his  funeral  bier ; 
Then  lay  his  shrivell'd  form 
Where  nought  like  wind  or  storm 

Can  e'er  disturb  it  through  the  coming  year. 


HERMAN  SCHAMMER. 

A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE. 

PERCHANCE,  gentle  reader  —  for  gentle  assu- 
redly thou  art  who  perusest  the  dainty  pages  of 
this  annual  —  thou  hast,  in  that  sweet  spring-time 
of  the  year,  when  buds  are  clustering  on  every 
tree,  and  birds  are  musical  in  every  bower,  and 
the  early  violets  hang  their  blue  fringes  by  the 
dewy  wayside  ;  perchance  thou  hast  (smitten  with 
a  yearning  for  the  sweet  companionship  of  nature) 
left  the  dusty  sidewalks  of  thy  own  New  Amster- 
dam, (if  thou  be  a  Manhattanese,)  and  wandered 
forth  for  health  and  recreation  upon  that  fair  sister 
island  which  stretches  its  luxuriant  length  along 
the  sunny  shores  of  the  main  land.  I  will  imagine 
that  thou  hast  often  strayed  as  far  as  the  Bath- 
House,  and  lingered  on  the  sandy  beach,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  not  unmusical  dirge  of  the  hoary 
surges,  as  they  shelved  over  the  level  shore  of 
Coney  island.  If  I  am  right  in  my  supposition, 


70  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

thou  hast  not  passed  with  hasty  step  through  the 
rural  village  of  New  Utrecht.  Many  do  so,  but 
they  are  worldlings,  with  no  touch  of  philosophy, 
untinctured  with  legendary  lore,  and  quite  for- 
saken of  the  muse.  If  they,  the  gay  butterflies 
of  the  season,  linger  for  a  moment  within  the  hal- 
lowed precincts  of  that  ancient  village,  it  is  but  to 
flutter  over  the  threshold  of  the  inviting  inn,  and 
sip  the  exquisite  nectar  of  unadulterated  Hollands 
in  the  rustic  bar-room.  This  done,  they  pause 
not,  but  in  "  hot  haste"  ignite  their  Havanas  at 
the  flame  of  the  little  japanned  lamp  which  mine 
host  keeps  ever-burning  like  a  vestal  fire  ;  and 
then,  snapping  their  whips  in  the  eyes  of  the  as- 
tonished burghers,  two  or  three  of  whom  are 
always  lounging  on  the  stoop  during  the  idle  hours 
of  a  June  sunshine,  they  spring  into  their  light 
buggies,  and  whirl  away  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and 
smoke,  more  volatile  than  the  essence  of  the  weed 
they  breathe.  Perchance  New  Utrecht  is  remem- 
bered, if  recalled  at  all,  to  curse  the  flavour  of  the 
cigar,  and  eulogize  the  nare  of  the  Schiedam  ;  but 
its  hold  upon  the  memory  is  feeble,  and  the  nee- 
tar  of  the  next  libation  sweeps  it  away  forever. 

But  you  and  I,  gentle  reader,  were  cast  in  a 
different  mould,  and  made  of  finer  clay.     We  live 


HERMAN    SCHAMMER.  77 

in  the  nineteenth  century,  but  we  are  not  of  it. 
We  ride  neither  in  buggies  nor  in  railroad  cars, 
but  plod  onward  in  the  humble  footpath,  patient 
followers  of  the  picturesque,  and  ardent  worship- 
pers of  nature.  And  now  we  are  acquainted 
with  each  other,  and  I  am  as  much  at  liberty  to 
prose,  and  you  quite  as  much  obliged  to  listen,  as 
if  we  had  been  friends  for  half  a  century. 

The  village  of  New  Utrecht  is  pleasantly  sit- 
uated, and  contains  several  pretty  dwellings,  and 
a  stone  church ;  but  of  late  it  has  lost  by  fire  one 
of  its  most  picturesque  dwellings,  the  venerable 
mansion  of  Oloffe  Schammer,  one  of  the  patri- 
archs of  the  place.  It  was  a  hoary,  moss-grown 
building,  with  a  brown,  decayed  roof,  that  bright- 
ened here  and  there  into  tints  of  the  liveliest 
green,  faced  with  gray  stone,  but  having  a  back 
and  gables  of  little  yellow  bricks.  An  extensive 
picket-paling  enclosed  the  house  and  grounds,  in- 
cluding a  close -shaven  lawn  that  descended  with 
a  regular  slope  to  the  road,  and  was  bordered  with 
dwarfish  apple-trees,  planted  more  than  a  century 
ago.  Away  to  the  left  and  right,  and  far  back  in 
the  rear  of  the  mansion-house,  stretched  those 
moist  and  flowery  meadows,  and  those  rich  acres 
of  arable  land,  broken  here  and  there  by  fruit- 


78  THE  W  I  NT  ERG  RE  EN. 

trees,  over  which  the  good  Oloffe  Schammer  lorded 
it  in  all  the  importance  and  self-complacency  of 
an  hereditary  landholder.  It  was  pleasant  to  see 
the  old  gentleman,  sitting  on  his  stoop  at  the  close 
of  a  Sabbath  afternoon  in  summer,  enjoying  the 
fragrance  of  the  Indian  weed,  inhaled  through  a 
long  and  snowy  pipe,  and  surveying  his  extensive 
domain  with  something  of  an  honest  pride  and  a 
fervent  gratitude  depicted  in  his  aged  counte- 
nance. Time  had  spared  the  rounded  outlines  of 
his  face  ;  and  though  the  hairs  that  streamed  over 
his  ample  forehead  and  broad  shoulders  were  few 
and  silvery,  the  blood  had  not  yet  faded  from  his 
cheek,  nor  the  rose-tint  from  his  lips.  He  was  a 
study  for  one  of  those  painters  who  inherit  the 
fidelity  and  the  characteristics  of  the  Flemish 
school.  Even  a  stranger  could  sympathize  with 
the  joy  that  inspired  Oloffe  as  he  surveyed  the 
treasures  of  his  farm ;  the  tall  grass  waving  like 
an  inland  ocean  in  the  fitful  breeze  that  swept 
over  the  wide  meadow,  whose  verdure  was  sha- 
dowed here  and  there  by  the  bulky  forms  of  the 
grazing  herd ;  while  now  and  then  a  shy  colt, 
alarmed  at  an  unusual  noise,  would  leave  his  so- 
berer companions,  and  dash  over  the  undulating 
surface  nearly  at  high  speed.  Turning  from  these, 


HERMAN   SC  HAMMER.  79 

the  eye  would  pause  upon  the  extensive  fields  of 
ripening  maize,  whose  golden  tassels,  under  the 
influence  of  the  capricious  wind,  waved  in  the 
evening  sunshine,  filling  the  mind  with  joyous 
ideas  of  plenty  and  luxuriance. 

The  world  at  large  pronounced  Oloffe  Scham- 
rner  to  be  a  happy  man,  but  he  was  not  entirely 
exempt  from  those  evils  with  which  humanity  is 
doomed  to  be  afflicted.  He  had  a  shrewish  wife, 
over  whom  he  vainly  struggled  to  obtain  the  mas- 
tery ;  and  many  a  hot  skirmish  had  been  the  con- 
sequence of  his  rebellion  against  petticoat  domin- 
ion. It  is  true  that  death  had  put  an  end  to  the 
warfare  by  seizing  Dame  Schammer  during  a  fu- 
rious excess  of  passion ;  but  then  this  event  de- 
prived the  family  of  a  notable  housewife,  and  left 
its  master  too  old  to  think  of  marrying  a  second 
time.  To  be  sure,  it  was  currently  reported  that 
he  had  showed  some  signs  of  amativeness  after 
the  decease  of  his  dame  ;  but  the  story  of  his 
having  escorted  Gertrude  Van  Brummel  to  sing- 
ing-school, a  fortnight  after  the  calamity,  turned 
out,  upon  investigation,  to  be  a-  weak  invention  of 
the  enemy.  Indeed,  the  old  gentleman  resolutely 
wore  his  widower's  weeds,  and  seemed  very  shy 
of  the  fairer  portion  of  creation  ;  in  fact,  he  once 


80  T  II  E   VV  1  N  T  E  R  G  R  E  E  X. 

stayed  away  from  afternoon  service  upon  Sunday, 
because  a  famous  Gravesend  belle  had  appeared 
in  the  morning  in  a  neighbouring  pew,  equipped 
with  a  new  cap  and  ribands,  and  darted  some  very 
dangerous  glances  at  the  venerable  OlofFe. 

Dame  Schammer  had  left  her  husband  two 
thriving  pledges,  or  proofs  of  the  happiness  of 
their  union,  in  the  persons  of  a  couple  of  fine 
boys  —  OlofFe,  the  elder,  and  Herman,  the  younger. 
They  thrived  in  health  and  strength,  and  grew  up 
happily  to  manhood,  educated  under  the  same 
roof,  brought  up  under  the  eye,  and  guided  by  the 
fostering  care  of  their  fond  father.  The  differ- 
ence of  their  respective  ages  was  not  so  great  as 
to  prevent  them  from  being  playmates  and  com- 
panions —  the  same  bed  received  them  when  they 
slept ;  the  same  sports  amused  them  in  their  lei- 
sure hours,  and  the  same  birch  urged  them  through 
the  spelling-book  ;  notwithstanding  which,  to  the 
surprise  of  all,  they  grew  up  with  different  tastes 
and  dispositions.  OlofFe  resembled  his  father, 
and  was  fond  of  the  labours  of  the  farm  —  he  was 
humble  and  industrious.  Herman,  on  the  con- 
trary, wras  equally  averse  to  study  and  to  agricul- 
ture, and  was  presuming  and  lazy.  He  went  to 
work  with  an  ill  grace,  and  was  industrious  only 


HERMAN  SC  HAMMER.  81 

in  perpetrating  mischief.  He  over-rode  the  colts, 
stole  eggs,  twisted  the  necks  of  the  bantam  chick- 
ens, and  played  all  manner  of  tricks  upon  the  ne- 
gro labourers. 

When  rebuked  by  his  father,  ho  was  either 
sulky  and  sileait,  or  clamourous  and  insolent ;  and 
it  was  very  soon  known  in  the  neighbourhood 
that  Herman  was  a  most  incorrigible  dog.  Be- 
sides, as  he  grew  up,  he  used  to  haunt  the  tavern, 
where  the  general  license  of  manners  afforded 
him  full  scope  for  the  display  of  his  evil  propen- 
sities. He  astonished  the  old  world  fellows  that 
lounged  in  the  bar-room,  by  calling  for  unheard- 
of  liquors  ;  and  once,  in  one  of  his  wildest  pa- 
roxysms, insisted  upon  Champaigne  and  Cham- 
bertin.  A  staid  old  Dutchman,  who  heard  the 
requisition,  being  made  with  some  difficulty  to 
comprehend  that  these  were  the  names  of  Euro- 
pean wines,  declared  that  there  was  no  surer  sign 
of  a  young  man's  ruin  than  when  he  deserted 
"  honest  Hollands  for  the  wishy-washy  stuff  of 
them  French  foreigners." 

Herman's  indulgent  father  at  first  supplied  him 
with  cash  ;  but  when  he  found  that  the  youngster 
frequented  bar-rooms  and  cockpits,  was  a  high 
better  at  the  races,  and  lost  more  money  at  nine- 


82  THE  WINTERGREEX. 

pins  than  he  ever  earned  in  his  life,  he  tightened 
his  purse-strings,  and  declared  that  the  young 
spendthrift  should  have  no  more  hard-gotten  coin 
to  waste  in  heartless  dissipation.  This  annunci- 
ation threw  Herman  into  a  fit  of  melancholy 
musing,  and  he  even  suffered  his  cigar  to  go  out 
as  he  balanced  his  chair  upon  its  two  hind  legs, 
and  crossed  his  feet  upon  the  railing  of  his  father's 
stoop.  "  My  purse  is  certainly  empty,"  he  solilo- 
quized aloud,  "  there's  no  deception  in  that ;  and 
dad  is  certainly  decided  —  there's  no  deception  in 
thaf.  How  to  replenish  ?  Borrow  ?  Pshaw  !  I 
owe  too  much  already.  Work  ?  Never  !  I  was 
born  to  be  a  gentleman.  If  I  had  my  share  of 
this  estate  —  but  then  my  dad  bids  fair  to  be  eter- 
nal. Yet  he  is  plethoric,  and  smokes  too  much 
for  his  health.  Well,  well  —  I  shouldn't  think  of 
such  a  thing  ;  and  yet,  if  anything  should  happen 
to  the  worthy  old  gentleman,  really  I  believe  I 
shouldn't  break  my  heart  about  it." 

"  Shouldn't  you,  indeed  ?"  said  a  voice  behind 
Herman,  which  made  him  start  to  his  feet  as 
instantly  as  if  a  gun  had  been  discharged.  He 
turned,  and  tremblingly  recognized  his  father. 
"Heartless  profligate  !"  continued  the  old  gentle- 
man, "  is  this  the  reward  for  all  my  care,  all  my 


H  E  R  M  A  X   S  f  II  A  M  M  E  R.  83 

training,  all  my  indulgence  ?  Do  you  say  this  — 
you,  Herman,  whom  I  have  fondled  on  my  knee, 
and  watched  over  in  manhood  ?"  A  tear  started 
to  his  eye,  but  he  went  on.  "  Well,  well, 
'tis  the  way  of  the  world.  When  the  tree  is  old, 
and  the  fruit  has  fallen,  the  axe  is  laid  at  its  root, 
and  the  suckers  that  sprang  from  it  thrive  better 
for  its  downfall." 

"  Now,  father,"  said  the  youth,  moved  by  the 
softness  and  solemnity  of  the  old  man's  manner, 
"I  didn't  mean " 

"  Don't  say  that,"  interrupted  the  old  man  ; 
"  you  wish  me  away  —  you  know  you  do  —  my 
room  is  better  than  my  company.  Well,  well,  it 
may  happen  much  sooner  than  you  expect.  I  can 
hardly  survive  this  last  blow,  but  it  will  be  a  com- 
fort to  you  to  learn  that  I  shall  leave  you  well 
provided  for  —  one-half  this  house  and  farm  will 
be  yours,  and  one -half  of  my  bank-stock  and 
ready  money  ;  and  I  hope,  dear  Herman,  that  you 
will  think  better  of  me  when  I  am  dead  than  you 
ever  did  when  living."  The  old  man  brushed 
away  a  tear  from  his  eye,  grasped  the  hand  of  his 
son,  and  then  left  him  to  his  reflections. 

Strange  to  say,  the  event  which  the  unnatural 
son  had  desired,  and  which  the  afflicted  parent 


84  THE  WINTER  GRE  EX. 

had  predicted,  actually  occurred  within  a  week  ; 
and  the  good  Oloffe,  mourned  by  almost  every 
one,  was  gathered  to  his  fathers.  During  his 
last  illness,  he  was  frequently  left  alone  with  his 
particular  friend,  old  Wouter  Van  Wouvermans, 
and  even  died  in  his  arms.  In  pursuance  with 
his  last  request,  which  savoured  of  the  delirium 
of  "  parting  hour,"  no  one  was  allowed  to  look 
upon  his  face  in  death,  excepting  the  beloved  and 
faithful  Wouter,  who  had  the  sole  direction  of  the 
funeral  ceremonies,  which  were  conducted  with 
great  solemnity,  and  at  no  trifling  expense.  Re- 
freshments were  circulated  among  the  mourners, 
presents  made  to  the  pall-holders  and  clergyman, 
and  a  long  train  gathered  to  honour  the  commit- 
ment of  the  venerated  remains  to  their  last  rest- 
ing-place. 

The  grief  of  the  elder  son  was  lasting,  but  that 
of  Herman  short-lived ;  and  a  week  had  hardly 
elapsed  before  the  younger  brother  had  laid  plans 
for  an  expensive  campaign  in  the  city  of  New  York. 

"  Brother  OlofFe,"  said  Herman,  one  morning, 
"  you  may  dig  and  delve  if  you  like,  but  I  am  go- 
ing to  enjoy  myself.  I  am  off  to  New  York  this 
very  day." 

"  So  am  I,"  replied  the  staid  Oloffe.     "  I  have 


HERMAN  B  CHAM  MS  t.  85 

peas  to  take  to  market.     You  can  go  up  in  the 
schooner  with  me." 

"  Schooner  be  d d  !"  replied  Herman.    "I 

am  going  up  with  the  stanhope  and  the  bay  colts 
—  my  bay  colts,  you  know,  brother." 

"  One  of  them  belongs  to  me,"  replied  the  te- 
nacious Oloffe.  "  You  have  only  half  of  the 
house,  farm,  and  stock." 

"  You  wouldn't  separate  a  match  pair  of  geld- 
ings ?"  said  Herman.  "  That  would  be  a  pity. 
Let  me  have  your  colt,  and  name  your  price." 

"  I  won't  part  with  him  at  any  rate,"  said  OlofFe, 
coolly. 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you,  brother  of  mine,"  cried 
Herman,  in  a  great  rage,  "  that  you're  no  gentle- 
man." 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  be,"  replied  Oloffe,  quietly. 

"  No  gentleman,"  repeated  Herman  ;  "  and, 
since  you  talk  of  halves,  egad,  I'll  sell  my  half  of 
the  farm,  my  half  of  this  old  rickety  pile  of  stones, 
my  half  of  everything,  down  to  the  snuffers  and 
the  kitchen  tongs." 

"  You  wouldn't  do  so  unnatural  a  thing  !"  said 
Oloffe,  raising  his  hands  and  eyes  at  the  sacrile- 
gious proposal.  "  Our  father  would  rise  from  the 
grave  — his  spook  would  haunt  your  bedside." 


HG  T  II  E   W  I  X  T  K  R  ( J  R  F.  E  X. 

"  I  shall  do  it,  my  boy." 

"  Rather  than  that,  Herman,  I  would  sacrifice 
everything  —  even  my  honest  rights.  Say  you 
give  up  this  horrid  plan,  and  you  may  have  the 
bay  colt." 

"  Well,  well,  boy,  I  take  your  offer." 

"That's  right,"  said  Oloffe.  "We  can  live 
here  so  comfortably  ;  and  harkee,  Herman,"  he 
added,  confidentially  —  for  his  brother's  surrender 
of  his  obnoxious  plan  had  opened  Oloffe's  heart  — 
"  you  needn't  mention  what  I  am  going  to  say,  but 
I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"  Indeed !"  said  Herman,  without  much  sur- 
prise ;  "  and  who  is  the  intended  Mrs.  Oloffe 
Schammer  ?" 

"  Can't  you  think  ?" 

"  No,  upon  my  soul." 

"  Gertrude  Van  Brummel!"  said  Oloffe.  But 
Herman  did  not  betray  the  expected  emotion.  He 
merely  said,  "Good  enough  for  you." 

"  Now,  Herman,"  said  the  good-natured  Oloffe, 
"  follow  my  example  —  get  married  to  Katrina 
Van  Klens,  and  we'll  all  live  so  happily  together." 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Herman,  half  contemptu- 
ously, and  half  angrily ;  "  if  I  marry  at  all,  it  shall 
be  one  of  those  elegant  opera-dancers  that  I  told 


HERMAN  SCHAMMER.  87 

you  of —  a  woman  gifted  with  the  '  poetry  of  mo- 
tion,' as  the  New  York  paragraphists  say  —  all 
grace  and  activity." 

"  Oh,  Herman !"  said  the  unsophisticated  Oloffe, 
"  what  would  our  poor  father  say,  if  he  could  only 
hear  you  ?  Marry  one  of  them  are  figures  !  — 
you  know  you  carried  me  to  see  them  once  ;  but, 
bless  me  !  I  didn't  know  which  way  to  look  — 
and  I'm  sure  I  turned  as  red  as  a  beet-root." 

"Poor  fellow!"  muttered  Herman,  in  atone  of 
pity. 

The  brothers  parted.  That  day  Herman  went 
up  to  New  York,  and  engaged  lodgings  at  the  City 
Hotel.  The  next,  he  launched  upon  his  mad  ca- 
reer of  dissipation,  and  soon  acquired  the  unen- 
viable reputation  of  a  man  of  pleasure.  He  fre- 
quented all  the  public  places,  and  was  a  constant 
attendant  at  theatres  and  races,  and  a  munificent 
patron  of  pugilists  and  cock-fighters.  At  gam- 
bling-houses he  was  welcomed  as  a  full-fledged 
pigeon,  and  fell  a  ready  prey  to  the  Greeks  and 
the  rooks ;  so  that,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks, 
a  sum  of  money,  which  he  believed  inexhausti- 
ble, had  taken  unto  itself  wings,  and  flown  away. 
An  odd  thousand  still  remained,  and  Herman  de- 
termined to  see  the  last  of  it  before  he  retired  to 


88  THE  W  I  NT  ERG  KEEN. 

his  paternal  acres  to  shoot  high'oles,  and  devour 
strawberries. 

It  so  happened  that  about  this  time  a  fresh  im- 
portation of  figurantes  had  been  made  ;  and  the 
lovely  creatures,  blushing  with  rouge,  and  shining 
in  satin,  had  been  safely  landed  from  a  Havre 
packet  ship.  Their  annunciation  at  the  theatre 
produced  an  extraordinary  excitement  —  tickets 
were  put  up  at  auction,  and  the  large  house  at 
which  they  appeared  was  crowded  to  suffocation. 
Among  the  gaping  spectators  was  our  friend  Her- 
man,  who  had  paid  five  dollars  for  an  uncomforta- 
ble seat  in  the  orchestra,  where  he  was  dinned  by 
a  fiddle,  and  stunned  by  a  bassoon  ;  for  he  had  no 
ear  for  melody,  though  a  great  admirer  of  the 
"  poetry  of  motion." 

Among  the  lovely  figurantes,  Mademoiselle  An- 
gelique  de  la  Rose  D'Amour  was  the  most  vehe- 
mently applauded,  for  the  elegance  of  her  person, 
the  brevity  of  her  dress,  and  the  airiness  of  her 
pas  de  zephyr.  Our  young  Dutchman  was  as  one 
insane  —  he  applauded  when  the  whole  house  had 
ceased  ;  he  shivered  his  cane  ;  he  blistered  his 
hands  ;  he  tore  his  throat  with  his  ex'ertions  in 
crying  viva  and  encore ;  and  he  finally  became  so 
rabid  and  outrageous,  that  he  was  seized  by  the 


HER  MA  A"    SCHAMiMER.  89 

thorough-bass  and  French-horn  player,  and  con- 
ducted  from  the  orchestra  to  cool  his  enthusiasm 
in  the  park. 

With  the  morning,  no  cool  reflection  came. 
Our  hero  woke  in  love  with  Mademoiselle  An- 
gelique  de  la  Rose  D' Amour,  who  had  been  busy 
in  a  very  unaccountable  manner  with  his  dreams. 
Alas  !  those  fatal  pigeon-wings  !  I  will  not  stop 
to  recount  the  infinite  pains  which  Herman  took 
to  procure  an  introduction  to  his  goddess,  nor  the 
variety  of  forms  in  which  his  admiration  showed 
itself,  nor  the  extravagance  of  his  action,  nor  the 
causes  of  his  success.  If  any  one  dared  but  to 
breathe  a  word  against  the  fair  fame  of  his  inam- 
orata, the  inevitable  consequence  was  a  meeting 
at  Hoboken.  At  length  Herman  was  united  to 
Mademoiselle  Angeliquc  de  la  Rose  D'Amour. 
He  was  very  happy  for  a  week,  uneasy  in  a  fort- 
night, disgusted  ere  the  honeymoon  was  over.  By 
this  time  the  artificial  roses  had  faded  from  the 
cheeks  and  lips  of  Madame  ;  she  looked  forty,  but 
not  fat ;  was  slatternly,  drank  brandy  and  water, 
and  took  snuff.  Besides  all  this,  she  had  "  made 
away"  with  all  the  cash  of  the  luckless  Scham- 
mer.  It  was  very  necessary  that  an  eclaircisse- 
ment  should  take  place  ;  and  the  young  man  one 


90  THE  W1NTERGREEN. 

morning  revealed  to  his  bride  the  state  of  his  pe- 
cuniary affairs,  and  respectfully  hinted  that,  as  a 
further  supply  was  desirable,  the  lady  had  better 
resume  her  professional  duties.  She  refused  point 
blank.  Herman  stormed  and  swore,  but  his  vi- 
olence had  the  same  effect  as  his  arguments  ;  the 
lady  could  be  as  abusive  as  himself,  and  surely  no 
poissarde  could  more  adroitly  wield  the  weapons 
of  French  billingsgate.  Herman  had  married  in 
haste,  and  he  now  repented  at  leisure.  He  final- 
ly, in  the  midst  of  his  perplexity,  determined  to 
take  Madame  to  his  farm,  which  he  described  to 
her  as  an  elegant  country  seat,  and  was  surprised 
to  find  that  this  dernier  resort  was  most  agreeable 
to  her.  Their  baggage  was  sent  down  by  water, 
while  they  themselves  (the  happy  pair !)  were 
conveyed  to  New  Utrecht  by  the  bay  colts,  now 
no  longer  the  glossy,  sound,  and  spirited  things 
that  hurried  Herman  up  to  town  ;  but  lean,  foun- 
dered, shaggy,  and  rusty,  looking  like  ten  year 
old  horses  of  an  inferior  breed,  instead  of  blood- 
nags  descended  from  Eclipse. 

Oloffe  received  Herman  kindly,  and  his  wife 
coldly.  He  had  been  married  himself,  and  he 
introduced  his  buxom  little  Gertrude  to  the  French 
dame  with  visible  reluctance.  Herman  had  al- 


HERMAN    SCHAMMER.  91 

ready  begun  to  look  upon  his  brother  with  some 
respect,  and  he  could  not  help  noting  how  advan- 
tageously OlofFe  compared  with  himself.  OlofFe 
exulted  in  a  frame  rendered  vigourous  by  constant 
exercise  in  the  open  air,  by  temperance,  and  hardy 
labour ;  while  that  of  Herman,  though  of  power- 
ful mould,  had  become  enervated  by  idleness  and 
dissipation.  Herman  had  brought  home  to  his 
birth-place  nothing  but  discontent,  an  empty  purse, 
a  baggage  of  a  wife,  and  the  dyspepsia.  His  wife 
grew  more  and  more  peevish  and  slatternly  every 
day,  and  Herman  was  often  driven  by  her  conduct 
to  his  old  haunt,  the  bar-room  of  the  village  tav. 
ern.  He  sometimes,  indeed,  of  an  afternoon, 
wandered  into  the  woods  with  his  gun,  or  strayed 
through  the  grounds,  gathering  the  choicest  fruit 
from  the  branches.  As  he  was  one  day  engaged 
in  the  last-mentioned  employment,  he  detected  a 
ragged  fellow,  with  the  air  of  a  foreigner,  beating 
down  peaches  with  a  huge  club,  with  which  he 
assailed  one  of  the  finest  trees  on  the  farm.  Her- 
man seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  dragged  him 
with  some  difficulty  into  the  house  ;  for  he  wished 
OlofFe,  who  was  then  within  doors,  to  be  confront- 
ed with  him,  and  decide  upon  his  punishment. 
The  depredator  was  a  Frenchman —  "  one  of  them 


92  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

cursed  French  foreigners,"  OlofFe  termed  him,  and 
declared  that  he  was  determined  to  punish  him  to 
the  utmost  rigour  of  the  law.  At  this  crisis  of 
affairs,  Madame  Herman  entered  the  apartment. 
As  soon  as  the  prisoner  saw  her,  he  broke  from 
the  hands  of  Oloffe,  and  rushed  towards  her  with 
a  tragic  gesture  and  a  tragic  exclamation.  The 
lady  started,  shrieked,  and  turned  pale. 

"  Hullo!"  cried  Herman,  "what  do  you  want 
with  my  wife  ]" 

"  Your  vife !"  exclaimed  the  vagabond.  "  Par- 
dieuf  she  is  my  vife  —  my  Angel ique.  Sacre 
dieu,"  he  continued,  addressing  Angelique,  "qu'est 
ce  que  vou-sfaites  id  1" 

"  Soyez  tranquille^  mon  ange"  said  the  lady. 

"  Bah  !"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  Mounsheer,"  said  OlofFe,  who  seemed  delight- 
ed  with  the  scene,  because,  perhaps,  he  did  not 
completely  comprehend  it,  "just  say  again  that 
this  'ere  French  woman  is  your  wife,  and  I'll  give 
you  your  liberty,  and  twenty  good  hard  dollars." 

"  And  I'll  give  you  five  times  as  much,"  said 
Herman. 

"  Bete  /"  cried  Madame,  regarding  Herman 
with  a  scowl. 

"  I  can   prove    she  is  ma  femme  /"    said  the 


HERMAN    SCHAMMER.  93 

Frenchman  ;  and  he  proved  it  to  the  satisfaction 
of  Herman  and  his  brother.  He  was  an  opera- 
dancer  —  his  wife  had  run  away  from  him  —  he 
had  come  to  America  to  seek  an  engagement  — 
he  had  been  as  yet  unsuccessful,  and  was  abso- 
lutely starving  when  he  stormed  the  fruit-tree. 
His  offence  was  readily  forgiven  by  Herman,  who, 
however,  did  not  feel  entirely  relieved  from  ap- 
prehension until  he  had  witnessed  the  departure 
of  the  poor  Frenchman  with  his  newly-found  prize. 

Herman  was  happy  for  a  short  time,  but  then 
he  began  to  complain  of  indigestion  and  general 
ill  health  —  the  fruits  of  his  unwise  and  indefen- 
sible career.  His  brother  advised  him  to  work 
upon  the  farm,  but  Herman  was  not  sufficiently 
humbled  to  do  so  ;  he  had  still  a  false  pride,  and 
an  incorrigible  aversion  to  labour.  He  pondered 
for  whole  days  together,  and  his  mind  was  full  of 
the  hope  of  being  able  to  strike  out  some  new  and 
easy  path  to  fortune.  He  was  aware  that  a  for- 
tune might  be  made  from  the  farm,  but  he  had  not 
energy  enough  to  attempt  its  cultivation. 

He  was  one  day  wandering,  in  a  contemplative 
mood,  under  the  shade  of  a  fine  grove  of  oaks 
which  his  father  had  planted  in  his  youthful  days, 
and  which  had  been,  in  his  lifetime,  a  favourite 


94  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

resort  of  the  good  old  man,  when  his  mind,  soft- 
ened by  misfortune,  and  touched  by  local  associa- 
tion, reverted  to  the  days  of  his  innocent  childhood. 
He  beheld  that  venerable  old  man,  who  had 
watched  over  his  youth,  and  guarded  the  pro- 
gressive steps  to  manhood,  who  had  forborne  to 
reproach  him  with  severity  even  when  he  gave 
utterance  to  the  most  unnatural  and  cruel  wishes 
—  he  thought  of  his  father's  sudden  death,  of  the 
evil  use  to  which  he  had  put  the  wealth  with 
which  that  sad  event  invested  him,  of  his  wild  ca- 
reer of  pleasure,  of  his  broken  health,  of  his  com- 
parative poverty ;  and  he  sighed,  and  trembled, 
and  relieved  his  bosom  by  a  gush  of  repentant 
tears.  As  his  agitation  subsided,  and  the  tears, 
which  he  called  unmanly,  were  dried  upon  his 
cheek,  Herman  raised  his  eyes,  but  veiled  them 
instantly,  for  that  single  glance  revealed  to  him 
the  apparition  of  his  father,  stealing  through  the 
grove  of  oaks ! 

"  Herman !"  said  a  melancholy  and  well- 
known  voice.  Herman  could  not  choose  but 
raise  his  eyes  again,  and  his  second  gaze  con- 
vinced him  that  he  saw  in  reality  the  form  of  his 
deceased  father. 

"  Herman  !"    said  the  spectre,  almost  in  the 


HERMAN    SCHAMMER.  95 

words  of  Hamlet's  sire,  "  I  am  thy  father's  spookie. 
Speak  not,  but  listen.  You  have  wasted  my 
wealth,  but  you  have  bought  repentance.  You 
have  injured  your  health,  but  both  may  be  re- 
stored. I  forgive  you,  and  I  love  you  still.  Dig,* 
dig  !  a  treasure  lies  buried  in  your  farm.  Dig, 
and  you  shall  obtain  it.  Tell  Oloffe  to  give  a 
top-dressing  of  ashes  to  his  corn."  And  the  appa- 
rition vanished. 

Herman  was  astounded.  That  he  had  seen  a 
spectre,  he  could  not  for  a  moment  doubt.  The 
dress  of  the  ghost  was  faithful  to  life.  There 
were  the  brown  corduroy  breeches,  with  pewter 
knee-buckles,  the  gray  worsted  hose,  the  broad- 
strapped  shoes,  the  blue  homespun  coat,  the  loop- 
ed-up  hat,  and  the  pipe  in  the  hat-band.  Then 
the  promise  of  recovering,  a  treasure  —  at  the 
thought,  Herman's  irresolution  vanished  ;  he  has- 
tened home,  and  went  to  work  in  right  good  ear- 
nest, with  plough,  and  spade,  and  shovel.  His 
industry  was  the  wonder  of  the  neighbourhood, 
and  no  one  could  account  for  it,  for  Herman  kept 
the  secret  to  himself.  In  a  week,  he  had  plough- 
ed and  dug  up  several  acres,  but  without  hitting 
upon  any  stone  pot  or  iron  chest  —  still  he  went 
on  with  unabated  ardour,  for  he  was  resolved  to 

o2 


96  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

"  take  the  ghost's  word  for  a  thousand  pounds." 
Oloffe  advised  him  to  drop  seeds  in  the  land  he 
had  already  dug  up  ;  and,  the  better  to  conceal 
his  real  object,  Herman  followed  his  advice.  In 
ten  days  Herman,  though  unsuccessful,  complain- 
ed  no  longer  of  indigestion,  eat  with  appetite,  and 
slept  unbrokenly.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  he 
was  resting  himself  with  Oloffe  on  the  long  settle 
of  the  stoop,  when  he  took  occasion  to  communi- 
cate to  his  brother  the  story  of  the  apparition,  and 
to  express  his  belief  that  it  was  a  mental  illusion, 
because  he  had  failed  of  finding  a  treasure,  and  a 
real  ghost  would  not  thus  have  imposed  upon  his 
credulity.  Oloffe  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

"  It  was  no  ghost,"  said  he,  "  but  your  good  old 
father  in  reality."  Herman  stared  aghast. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Oloffe,  "  strange  as  it  may 
seem,  he  is  alive  and  well,  and  happy  to  see  you 
reformed,  and  healthy,  and  industrious.  The  trea- 
sure he  spoke  of,  you  have  reaped  from  the  soil — 
health  and  independence." 

He  then  explained  that  the  old  man,  grieved  at 
hearing  his  son  calculating  the  chances  of  his 
death,  and  wishing  to  see  how  he  would  manage 
in  case  of  that  event,  feigned  death,  and  was  con- 
veyed away  by  Wouter  Van  Wouvermans,  and 


HERMAN  SCHAMMER.  97 

comfortably  lodged  in  a  private  attic  of  that  gen- 
tleman's house,  from  which  he  had  a  fine  view  of 
his  own  funeral.  He  had  watched  Herman's  ca- 
reer with  pain  and  anxiety,  but  resolved  to  wait 
the  event  with  patience.  The  story  was  con- 
firmed by  the  sudden  appearance  of  old  Oloffe 
Schammer  himself,  upon  his  stoop.  The  repent- 
ance of  Herman  was  sincere,  and  his  future  life 
cheered  the  declining  years  of  the  benevolent  old 
Dutchman,  who  lived  to  see  Herman  honestly  and 
happily  married,  and  to  look  upon  the  numerous 
progeny  of  his  two  children,  who  enjoyed  a  fair 
prospect  of  transmitting  their  great  and  honestly- 
earned  wealth  to  posterity. 


EUTHANASIA. 

BY  WILLIS  GAYLORD  CLARK. 

METHINKS,  when  on  the  languid  eye 

Life's  autumn  scenes  grow  dim  ; 
When  evening  shadows  veil  the  sky, 

And  Pleasure's  syren  hymn 
Grows  fainter  on  the  tuneless  ear, 
Like  echoes  from  another  sphere, 

Or  dream  of  Seraphim, 
It  were  not  sad,  to  cast  away 
This  dull  and  cumbrous  load  of  clay. 

It  were  not  sad,  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold ; 
To  feel  those  longings  to  depart, 
That  cheered  the  good  of  old  ; 
To  clasp  the  faith  which  looks  on  high, 
Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye, 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast, 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 


EUTHANASIA.  99 

It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed, 
Till  the  pure  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-winged  seraphs  led  : 
Where  glories  earth  may  never  know, 
O'er  "  many  mansions"  lingering  glow, 

In  peerless  lustre  shed ; 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar, 
Where  Sin  and  Grief  can  sting  no  more. 

And  though  the  way  to  such  a  goal 

Lies  through  the  clouded  tomb, 
If  on  the  free  unfettered  soul 

There  rests  no  stains  of  gloom, 
How  should  its  aspirations  rise, 
Far  through  the  blue  unpillared  skies, 

Up  —  to  its  final  home  ! 
Beyond  the  journeyings  of  the  sun, 
Where  streams  of  living  waters  run. 


LINES. 


BY  THE    EDITOR. 

ZEPHYR,  I  envy  thee  thy  bliss ; 
Not  that  the  wild  flower  courts  thy  kiss  — 
Not  that  thou  curl'st  the  bright  sea  foam 
Before  the  barque,  as  it  boundeth  home. 
Even  these  things  I  envy  thee  not, 
All  pure  as  thou  art,  if  it  be  my  lot, 
Concealed  from  view,  like  thyself  to  rove, 
Hovering  around  the  fair  form  I  love  — 
Like  thee,  in  her  tresses  of  gold  to  play, 
And  the  sultriness  chase  from  her  brow  away ; 
Ever  around  her  a  perfume  to  fling, 
Like  the  fragrant  drops  from  a  Peri's  wing, 
Or  the  violet  sheds,  when  its  petals  blue 
Are  covered  with  gems  of  the  early  dew. 


"SUFFER  LITTLE  CHILDREN  TO  COME 
UNTO  ME." 


BY  C.  HUNTINGTON. 

IT  was  the  sunset  hour  —  and  thousands  came 
From  the  lone  villages  and  distant  hills 
Of  far-off  Galilee,  to  meet  the  Lord  — 
Bearing,  with  gentle  step  and  anxious  eye, 
The  sufferers  of  their  race  to  Jesus'  feet, 
That  he  might  lay  his  sin-subduing  hand 
In  blessing  on  their  wan  and  wasted  frames, 
And  heal  them  with  a  sanctifying  touch. 
****** 

Amid  the  crowds  that,  with  adoring  looks, 

Hung  on  the  footsteps  of  the  Son  of  God, 

A  Galilean  mother  brought  her  child, 

In  its  young  loveliness  —  its  laughing  eyes 

Dancing  in  dewy  light  —  and,  kneeling,  pray'd 

A  benediction  from  those  sinless  lips 

Upon  the  cherub-beauty  of  the  babe  — 

But  the  disciples,  with  officious  zeal, 

Silenced  the  suppliant  with  this  stern  rebuke  — 

"  Why  troublest  thou  the  Master  ?" 


102  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

Jesus  heard, 

And  in  displeasure  turn'd  his  radiant  eye 
With  a  reproving  glance  on  him  that  spake  ; 
Then,  in  a  voice  of  calm  authority, 
With  gentle  accents,  briefly  thus  replied  — 
"  Suffer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me, 
Nor  let  them  be  forbidden  —  for  of  such 
My  Father's  kingdom  is." 

Then  Jesus  took  the  infant  in  his  arms, 
And  gently,  with  his  blessed  hand,  put  back 
The  silken  curls  that  clustered  on  its  brow  ; 
And,  bending  o'er  it,  press'd  his  holy  lips 
Upon  the  stainless  forehead  of  the  babe  — 
Making  the  brow  of  childhood,  from  that  hour, 
A  thing  of  holiness  —  the  only  shrine 
Which  the  Redeemer  hallowed  with  a  kiss. 

"  Suffer  these  little  ones  to  come  to  me," 
Was  the  command  of  Him  who,  on  the  cross, 
Bow'd  his  anointed  head,  and  with  his  blood 
Purchased  redemption  for  our  fallen  race  — 
And  blessed  they  !  who  to  that  holy  task 
Devote  the  energies  of  their  young  years  ; 
Teaching,  with  pious  care,  the  dawning  light 
Of  infant  intellect  to  know  the  Lord. 
Thrice  blessed  they !  who  guide,  with  gentle  hand, 
The  timid  steps  of  childhood  in  that  path 
Which,  (rightly  trodden,)  leads  the  wanderers  home, 
Where  they  shall  meet,  (the  teachers  and  the  taught,) 
On  that  blest  Sabbath  which  shall  have  no  end. 


HENPECKERY: 

SHOWING    HOW   RICHARD    SLOMAN    WAS    COWED    DOWN. 
BY  SEBA  SMITH. 

HANNAH  SMART  was  "  brought  up,"  as  they 
say  in  New  England,  by  Mr.  Moses  Gardner. 
She  was  an  orphan,  her  parents  having  died 
when  she  was  quite  a  child  ;  and  Mr.  Gardner, 
having  no  family  but  his  wile,  took  the  child,  by 
the  advice  and  sanction  of  the  select-men,  to  oc- 
cupy that  half-way  station  between  a  servant  and 
a  daughter  in  his  family,  which  usually  falls  to 
the  lot  of  adopted  children. 

Mr.  Gardner  was  a  good-natured,  benevolent 
man  —  a  farmer,  in  easy  circumstances ;  who,  as 
he  had  no  children,  made  something  of  a  pet  of  a 
favourite  black  mare,  which  he  always  used  to 
keep  in  the  best  trim,  fat  and  sleek  as  a  porpoise, 
and  her  tail  trimmed  into  a  long  and  graceful 
switch  ;  and  she,  in  return,  always  carried  him 


:<>i  THE    WINTER  ORE  EN. 

about,  wherever  he  went,  with  a  comfortable, 
easy,  slow  trot,  that  comported  well  with  his 
staid,  quaker-like  appearance,  as  well  as  being 
very  suitable  to  his  heavy  rotundity  of  body. 

Hannah  was  a  girl  for  whom  nature  had  done 
a  good  deal  —  indeed,  on  some  points,  it  would 
seem  as  though  she  had  done  almost  too  much ; 
for,  according  to  the  laws  of  phrenology,  she  had 
given  her  rather  an  undue  portion  of  self-esteem 
and  love  of  approbation,  together  with  a  full  share 
of  destructiveness  ;  so  that  Hannah  not  only  had 
the  powerful  elements  of  a  vain  woman  about 
her,  but  was  pretty  likely,  in  the  course  of  her 
life,  to  beat  down  all  obstacles  that  stood  in  the 
way  of  her  having  her  own  will.  Indeed,  she 
always  had  her  own  will,  while  she  lived  with 
Mr.  Gardner,  almost  without  knowing  it ;  for  his 
easy,  good-natured  disposition,  hardly  ever  oppo- 
sed any  obstacles  in  her  way  —  and  as  to  her 
vanity,  it  did  not  show  itself  to  her  disadvantage 
till  even  some  years  after  she  was  married ;  for  the 
plain,  simple,  honest  society  around  her,  did  no- 
thing to  minister  to  its  growth. 

When  Hannah  was  about  fifteen  years  of  age, 
Mr.  Gardner  advised  his  wife  to  allow  her  an  op- 
portunity to  learn  millinery,  as  there  was  a  chance 


HENPECKERY.  105 

in  the  neighbourhood  for  her  to  be  initiated  into 
the  mysteries  of  that  graceful  art ;  for  he  said 
"  it  might  become  of  great  use  to  her  at  some 
time  of  her  life,  as  there  was  no  knowing  what 
situation  a  body  may  be  placed  in,  and  he  thought 
it  was  always  well  for  a  child,  boy  or  girl,  to  be 
acquainted  with  some  kind  of  a  trade,  or  to  un- 
derstand some  handiwork,  that  they  could  resort 
to,  in  case  of  necessity,  wherever  they  might  be 
placed." 

Accordingly,  Hannah  was  put  under  the  tuition 
of  a  milliner  for  the  best  part  of  a  year,  and  was 
found  to  be  exceedingly  expert  at  the  business. 
Indeed,  it  was  allowed  that  her  taste  for  air  and 
finish  was  superior  to  that  of  her  teacher.  After 
this,  for  a  number  of  years,  she  supplied  bonnets 
for  the  neighbourhood  for  several  miles  round ; 
which,  to  be  sure,  as  it  was  a  country  place,  not 
very  thickly  settled,  did  not  occupy  but  a  small 
portion  of  her  time  —  so  that,  besides  this,  she 
had  much  time  to  assist  Mrs.  Gardner,  while  she 
remained  in  the  family ;  and,  after  she  was  mar- 
ried, time  enough  to  attend  to  all  matters  of  her 
own  household. 

At  eighteen  years  of  age,  Hannah  went  the 
way  of  all  girls  —  that  is  to  say,  she  got  married  ; 


106  THEWINTERGREEN. 

and  although  Mr.  Gardner,  as  well  as  his  wife, 
was  much  opposed  to  it  at  the  time,  yet,  when  he 
found  the  thing  was  settled,  and  it  was  no  longer 
of  any  use  to  oppose  it,  he  at  length  not  only 
gave  her  his  blessing,  but  quite  a  comfortable  fit- 
ting-out for  housekeeping.  His  reasons  for  op- 
posing the  match  were  two-fold.  First,  the  void 
he  foresaw  it  would  create  in  his  family  was  very 
painful  to  him ;  for  long  habit  had  taught  him  to 
regard  even  her  very  wilfulness  with  a  sort  of 
pleasure  —  that  is,  the  daily  exhibitions  of  it 
served  as  a  sort  of  stimulus  to  the  old  gentleman's 
quiet,  phlegmatic  temperament ;  and  he  was  un- 
easy without  it,  as  the  dram-drinker  without  his 
daily  cup.  And,  in  the  second  place,  he  had  se- 
rious doubts  whether  the  choice  that  Hannah  had 
made  for  a  husband,  which  indeed  might  rather 
be  called  her  choice  than  the  choice  of  the  young 
man,  she  having  been  the  most  active  of  the  two 
in  making  the  arrangement  —  Mr.  Gardner  had 
serious  doubts  whether  the  choice  was  the  best 
one  that  could  be  made ;  and  he  said  to  his  wife, 
one  day,  that  he  considered  Richard  Sloman  a 
very  clever  fellow,  but  he  was  afraid  he  wouldn't 
have  grit  enough  to  get  along  well  with  Hannah. 
And  on  the  day  of  the  wedding,  he  took  occasion 


H  E  N  P  E  C  K  E  R  Y.  107 

to  have  a  little  friendly  talk  with  Richard  himself, 
and  hinted  to  him  that,  although  Hannah  was  a 
very  nice  gal,  yet  she  was  not  only  smart  by 
name,  but  smart  by  nature,  and  had  an  uncommon 
faculty  of  having  her  own  way  in  the  world. 

But  what  did  Richard  care  for  that  ?  It  all 
seemed  right  enough  to  him.  He  loved  Hannah, 
and  Hannah  loved  him  ;  and  what  if  she  did  have 
her  own  way  ?  A  man  and  his  wife  were  one,  or 
ought  to  be  ;  and  if  she  had  her  own  way,  why, 
that,  of  course,  would  be  his  way ;  and  he  could 
see  no  trouble  on  that  score. 

Richard  Sloman  was  a  good-looking  young 
man,  just  "  out  of  his  time,"  or  twenty-one  years 
of  age,  the  very  day  he  was  married ;  for  he  took 
it  into  his  head  he  would  be  married  on  his  birth- 
day. He  was  of  the  middling  stature,  with  limbs 
well  proportioned,  finely  chiselled  features,  and  a 
mild  black  eye.  Hannah  Smart  had  "  set  her 
cap  for  him"  two  years  before;  and,  although 
they  were  not  long  in  coming  to  a  mutual  under- 
standing, Richard  would  not  consent  to  be  married 
till  he  was  his  own  man  —  a  high  privilege  which 
he  enjoyed  for  the  best  part  of  a  whole  day,  viz  : 
his  wedding-day ;  for,  according  to  all  accounts, 
he  never  was  perfectly  his  own  man  afterwards. 

H2 


108  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

Richard  had  learned  the  trade  of  a  shoemaker, 
and  was  a  very  neat  workman  ;  but,  as  there  were 
other  shoemakers  in  the  vicinity,  and  the  demand 
for  shoes  in  a  country -place  was  somewhat  limit- 
ed, he  worked  a  part  of  the  time  on  a  farm.  The 
first  years  of  their  married  life  went  off  very  com- 
fortably and  very  happily.  Richard  was  intelli- 
gent, industrious,  and  prudent ;  and  as  their  wants 
were  small,  he  managed  not  only  to  live  well,  but 
to  lay  up  a  little  something  ahead.  He  never 
stopped  to  think  whether  his  wife  had  her  own 
way  or  not.  He  always  got  her  everything  she 
wanted,  and  half  the  time  even  before  she  knew 
she  wanted  it  herself.  In  short,  the  theory  which 
Richard  had  formed  in  his  own  mind,  at  the  time 
Mr.  Gardner  talked  with  him  on  his  wedding-day, 
seemed  for  some  years  to  prove  true  —  his  wife's 
way  was  his  way.  Whatever  she  wanted,  he 
wanted  ;  and  he  couldn't  see  but  the  rule  worked 
the  other  way  just  as  well  —  for  his  way  seemed 
to  be  her  way.  Somehow  or  other,  they  naturally 
seemed  to  pull  together,  and  everything  went 
ahead  smooth  and  easy,  they  hardly  knew  how, 
and  never  troubled  themselves  to  think  how.  Thus 
the  years  rolled  round,  and  peace  and  sunshine  lay 
continually  in  their  pathway. 


H  E  N  P  E  C  K  E  R  Y.  109 

'*  Far  from  the  maddening  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray  ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequester'd  vale  of  life, 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way." 

But,  alas !  an  end  must  come  to  all  conditions 
of  earthly  enjoyment ;  and  we  often  throw  away 
the  good  we  have,  in  search  of  a  better,  which 
we  never  attain.  They  had  now  lived  in  this 
quiet,  comfortable  way,  ten  years,  and  had  five 
children  —  healthy,  handsome,  and  bright  chil- 
dren. But  Hannah,  for  the  last  year  or  two,  be- 
gan to  grow  restless.  The  spontaneous  action  of 
her  self-esteem,  and  love  of  approbation,  did  not 
find  sufficient  aliment.  Domestic  enjoyments 
seemed  to  become  almost  a  drug  to  her.  She 
wanted  a  change,  but  she  hardly  knew  what. 
She  told  Richard,  one  day,  she  wished  he  would 
move  into  the  village.  He  was  surprised  at  the 
proposition,  and  wanted  to  know  what  made  her 
think  of  that. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  think  we  might  have  a 
good  many  more  advantages  in  the  village  than 
we  have  in  the  country  —  better  society,  and  bet- 
tor schools.  It  would  be  a  good  deal  better  for 
our  children  ;  for  there  they  would  be  brought  up 
amongst  folks,  and  learn  to  be  something  in  the 
world." 


110  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

Richard  entered  into  a  little  course  of  reasoning 
with  her  on  the  subject,  to  show  her  that  it  would 
be  more  expensive  living  in  the  village  —  that 
they  would  have  to  buy  most  of  their  provisions, 
whereas  now  he  could  raise  nearly  all  they  want- 
ed ;  and  they  might  find  it  very  difficult  to  get 
along  as  comfortably  in  the  village  as  they  did  in 
their  present  situation. 

Although  the  subject  was  dropped  for  the  time, 
Hannah  did  not  give  it  up.  The  next  day  she 
referred  to  it  again,  in  a  more  decided  manner. 
"  It  would  be  a  great  deal  better  to  live  in  the 
village,  and  she  didn't  see  why  he  didn't  think 
about  it,  and  do  something  about  it." 

Richard  went  over  the  arguments  again,  to 
show  the  impolicy  of  the  undertaking  ;  and  added, 
among  other  things,  that  they  would  have  to  pay 
three  times  as  much  for  house -rent  as  they  had  to 
give  now.  Her  reply  was,  that  it  would  be  a 
much  better  place  both  for  shoes  and  for  bonnets, 
and  she  did  not  doubt  they  could  get  along  easier 
than  they  could  in  the  country.  So  that,  although 
Richard  had  demonstrated  pretty  clearly  that  if 
even  their  income  should  be  increased,  their  ex- 
penses would  be  increased  in  much  greater  pro- 
portion, he  found  the  old  adage  was  still  true,  and 
applicable  to  either  gender  — 


H  E  N  P  E  C  K  E  R  Y.  Ill 

"  She  that's  convinced  against  her  will, 
Is  of  the  same  opinion  still." 

Hannah  pursued  the  subject  again  the  next  day, 
and  began  to  impute  to  Richard  a  want  of  a  pro- 
per regard  for  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  his 
family.  This  was  more  than  Richard  could  bear. 
His  attachments  to  his  family  were  exceedingly 
strong.  His  wife  and  children  were  more  than  life 
to  him.  He  had  been  touched  on  a  very  sensitive 
point ;  and  he  told  Hannah,  if  she  desired  it,  he 
would  go  to  the  village  immediately,  and  look 
round,  and  see  what  could  be  done.  He  accord- 
ingly went  the  very  next  day ;  and  returning  in 
the  evening,  told  her  he  could  find  but  one  house 
to  let,  that  would  answer  their  purpose,  and  the 
rent  of  that,  with  a  very  small  garden,  was  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  a  year.  The  rent  of  the  one 
they  now  occupied,  including  land  enough  to 
keep  a  cow,  and  to  raise  more  vegetables  than 
they  wanted  to  use,  was  but  fifty  dollars  a  year. 
His  own  judgment  was  still  against  the  change, 
but  Hannah  believed  it  would  be  the  best  thing 
they  could  do.  They  could  make  a  shop  of  the 
corner  room,  next  to  the  street,  for  the  sale  of 
shoes  and  bonnets ;  and  her  head  was  full  of 
bright  visions  of  the  profitable  business  they  would 


112  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

do,  and  the  pleasant  times  the^  would  have  in  the 
village. 

Richard  therefore  went,  and  hired  the  house  ; 
and  as  soon  as  arrangements  could  possibly  be 
made,  they  removed  to  their  new  habitation. 
Here,  they  carried  out  Hannah's  idea  of  fitting 
up  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  bonnets  and  shoes.  They 
got  their  landlord  to  put  up  some  shelves  on  each 
side  of  the  corner  room  next  to  the  street,  and 
Richard  took  what  money  he  had  laid  up  from  his 
earnings,  about  three  hundred  dollars,  and  filled 
his  shelves  with  an  assortment  of  ready-made 
shoes,  and  provided  himself  with  a  small  amount 
of  stock  for  the  manufacture  of  more.  Hannah 
went  to  work  at  her  millinery,  and  it  was  not 
long  before  the  shelves  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
store  were  graced  by  a  goodly  array  of  bonnets, 
of  various  sorts  and  sizes. 

Thus  one  side  of  the  shop  was  devoted  to  cov- 
ering the  heads  of  customers,  and  the  other  side 
to  covering  the  feet,  and  the  whole  business  was 
carried  on  in  a  partnership  sort  of  a  way,  Richard 
and  Hannah  each  taking  turns  in  waiting  upon 
customers,  as  circumstances  might  render  it  con- 
venient —  that  is,  when  Richard  w,as  at  work  in 
his  little  manufacturing  room,  back  of  the  store, 


HENPECKERY.  113 

if  customers  came  in  for  shoes,  his  wife  would 
wait  upon  them  ;  and  when  she  was  occupied 
about  the  dinner,  or  had  gone  out  on  a  visit  or  on 
business,  Richard  would  mind  the  shop,  and  sell 
shoes  or  bonnets  as  opportunities  occurred.  They 
soon  began  to  do  a  snug  little  business,  and  Rich- 
ard himself  almost  came  to  the  conclusion  that, 
on  the  whole,  it  had  been  a  good  move,  and  they 
had  a  pretty  fair  prospect  of  getting  ahead  in  the 
world. 

Hannah  was  a  showy,  good-looking  woman, 
and  soon  attracted  much  attention  in  the  village. 
Her  bonnets  were  neat  and  tasteful,  and  were 
universally  praised  for  their  own  beauty ;  but  as 
fast  as  people  became  acquainted  with  the  beauty 
and  attractive  manners  of  Hannah,  they  praised 
her  bonnets  ten  times  more  than  they  did  before, 
and  declared  them  to  be  decidedly  the  most  taste- 
ful things  that  had  ever  appeared  in  the  village. 
These  remarks  often  came  to  Hannah's  ears,  ac- 
companied by  various  flattering  compliments  about 
her  own  good  looks ;  till  at  length  her  self-esteem 
and  approbativeness,  which  were  naturally  large, 
began  to  be  unduly  stimulated  and  active,  termi- 
nating in  a  decided  case  of  vanity.  And  when 
she  came  to  attract  the  marked  attention  of  Doc- 


114  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

tor  Slop's  family,  and  Lawyer  Sly's  family,  her 
head  was  fairly  turned. 

Mrs.  Doctor  Slop  and  Mrs.  Lawyer  Sly  both 
called  and  got  new  bonnets  on  the  same  day,  and 
they  both  very  foolishly  told  their  husbands,  when 
they  got  home,  what  a  beautiful  woman  Mrs.  Slo- 
man  was  —  a  noble-looking  woman,  with  fair 
complexion,  and  clear  blue  eyes,  and  very  fasci- 
nating in  her  manners.  The  result  wag,  that 
Doctor  Slop  and  Lawyer  Sly  both  called  that  very 
afternoon  at  Sloman's  shop,  to  fit  themselves  to  a 
pair  of  pumps  ;  and  Richard  being  at  work  in  the 
back  shop,  Hannah  of  course  waited  upon  them. 
And  they  had  to  try  on  a  great  many  pairs,  and 
sat  down,  that  they  might  do  it  at  their  leisure. 
And  then  they  could  not  make  up  their  minds 
which  suited  them  best,  and  had  to  try  them  all 
over  again.  They  were  sorry  to  give  her  so  much 
trouble,  but  she  did  not  consider  it  any  trouble  at 
all ;  and,  with  a  sort  of  bewitching  air,  and  ac- 
commodating spirit,  asked  them  to  look  at  some 
more. 

The  husbands  went  away  more  pleased,  if  pos- 
sible, with  Mrs.  Sloman,  than  their  wives  had 
been.  The  consequence  of  all  this  was  a  rapid 
and  intimate  acquaintance  between  Mrs.  Sloman 


H  E  N  P  E  C  K  E  R  Y.  115 

and  the  families  of  Doctor  Slop  and  Lawyer  Sly. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sloman  were  soon  invited  to  both 
of  those  places  to  tea ;  and  as  they  were  counted 
the  first  families  in  the  village,  and  as  Mrs.  Slo- 
iiKin  was  the  marked  object  of  their  attention,  she 
felt  herself  so  raised  in  the  atmosphere  of  society, 
that  she  became  quite  giddy  — -  and  more  espe- 
cially so,  when  she  had  been  told,  by  several  busy 
bodies,  that,  while  the  ladies  praised  the  beauty 
of  Mrs.  Sloman  Js  bonnets,  Doctor  Slop  and  Law- 
yer Sly  had  very  much  praised  the  beauty  of  Mrs. 
Sloman.  Her  wants  now  began  to  be  greatly 
increased.  She  needed  new  dresses  for  herself, 
and  new  clothes  for  the  children  ;  and  she  needed 
new  furniture  for  her  little  sitting-room  —  for  it 
was  a  shame  that  she  could  not  have  a  room  that 
was  decent  to  ask  Doctor  Slop  or  Lawyer  Sly,  or 
Mrs.  Doctor  Slop  or  Mrs.  Lawyer  Sly,  into,  when 
they  came  to  make  her  a  call. 

The  worst  of  the  matter  was,  as  her  wants  in- 
creased, her  means  of  supplying  them  diminished ; 
for  her  time  was  now  very  much  taken  up  in  mat- 
ters of  dress,  and  in  arranging  and  curling  her 
hair,  and  in  receiving  calls  and  making  visits. 
Doctor  Slop  and  Lawyer  Sly  were  very  fond  of 
ha\ring  her  come  to  spend  an  afternoon  at  their 


116  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

respective  houses,  and  often  took  her  out  to  walk, 
or  carried  her  to  ride  with  their  wives.  And  then 
the  bishops  and  bustles  of  fashion  came  in  for  a 
large  share  of  her  attention.  The  style  of  dress 
changed  as  often  as  the  moon ;  and  though  her 
old  friends  thought  she  did  not  look  near  so  well 
or  so  interesting  as  she  used  to,  when  she  dressed 
in  a  more  plain  and  simple  manner,  yet  she  was 
now  looked  upon  more  as  a  woman  of  fashion, 
and  that  suited  her  excited  vanity. 

These  things  necessarily  occupied  so  much  of 
her  time,  that  they  left  her  small  opportunity  to 
carry  on  her  business  of  millinery,  or  to  superin- 
tend the  ordinary  concerns  of  her  family.  Her 
stock  of  bonnets  diminished  ;  her  customers  found 
it  more  difficult  to  suit  themselves  ;  and  often, 
having  to  wait  an'unreasonable  time  before  their 
orders  were  answered,  resorted  to  other  places 
for  supplies.  In  short,  her  trade  fell  off  very 
much,  and  the  income  from  her  side  of  the  shop 
was  very  small.  It  was  in  vain  that  Richard  re- 
monstrated with  her  about  her  extra  expenses  ; 
that  they  were  unnecessary,  and  added  nothing 
to  their  comfort ;  that  they  had  been  very  com- 
fortable in  the  way  they  had  been  accustomed  to 
live,  and  that  their  income  would  not  afford  these 


HENPECKERY.  117 

new  expenditures.  Nevertheless,  Hannah  put  her 
hand  into  the  money-drawer  whenever  she  chose, 
and  helped  herself  to  such  things  as  she  liked. 
The  dressmaker  was  often  called  to  the  house, 
and  the  children  were  often  sent  to  the  tailor's. 
The  floor  was  newly  carpeted,  and  the  windows 
newly  curtained,  and  a  new  tea-set  was  brought 
upon  the  table. 

The  money-drawer,  which  had  hitherto  been 
used  in  common  for  both  sides  of  the  shop,  was 
often  drained  so  low,  that  Richard  found  it  impos- 
sible to  meet  the  various  bills  that  came  in ; 
and  when  quarter-day  came  round,  he  was 
obliged  to  borrow  twenty  dollars  towards  paying 
the  quarter's  rent.  He  now  remonstrated  more 
strongly,  and  urged  the  absolute  necessity  of  cur- 
tailing their  expenses,  insisting  that  the  money 
should  be  preserved  to  pay  provision-bills  and 
rent-bills,  which  could  not  be  put  ofF,  and  must 
be  paid ;  whereupon  Hannah  flew  in  a  passion, 
and  said  lie  might  curtail  as  much  as  he  had  a 
mind  to,  but  she  had  a  right  to  use  her  own  money 
as  she  pleased,  and  she  would  do  it.  And  hence- 
forth she  kept  the  money  received  for  bonnets  in 
her  own  pocket ;  and  if  any  were  sold  while  she 
was  out,  she  strictly  called  Richard  to  an  account, 


118  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

and  made  him  hand  over  the  change  the  moment 
she  came  in. 

Richard  told  her  he  did  not  want  the  money ; 
he  used  none  of  it  for  himself;  all  he  wanted  was 
to  have  it  laid  out  prudently,  and  to  good  advan- 
tage, for  the  use  of  the  family ;  but  the  times 
were  hard,  and  their  income  small,  and  it  needed 
a  prudent  use  of  all  they  could  earn  to  meet  their 
necessary  expenses.  This  reasoning  had  no  ef- 
fect upon  Hannah  —  she  still  persisted  in  having 
her  own  way,  getting  such  things  as  she  wanted, 
cost  what  they  would,  and  spending  what  she 
called  her  part  of  the  money,  as  sh,e  pleased. 
She  often  took  tea  at  Doctor  Slop's  and  Lawyer 
Sly's,  while  Richard  remained  at  home,  where 
his  presence  was  constantly  necessary,  to  look 
after  the  shop  and  the  family. 

Sometimes  the  Slops  and  the  Slys  took  tea  with 
Mrs.  Sloman,  and  then  there  was  an  extra  bill  at 
the  baker's  for  cakes  and  tarts,  and  an  extra  bill 
at  the  grocer's  for  sundries,  and  an  extra  bill  at 
the  drygoods  dealer's  for  laces  and  ribands,  and 
other  necessaries  of  life.  One  day,  when  Han- 
nah was  out,  some  of  these  extra  bills  from  the 
baker  and  grocer  were  brought  in,  and  Richard 
was  obliged  to  take  the  money  he  had  received 


HENPECKERY.  119 

for  a  bonnet  to  help  pay  them.  For  this,  Han- 
nah gave  him  a  severe  scolding,  and  heaped  upon 
him  many  taunting  reproaches.  She  told  him  if 
a  man  could  not  find  provision  for  his  family  to 
eat,  without  taking  his  wife's  money,  he  was  no 
man,  and  did  not  deserve  the  name  of  a  man. 
Richard  felt  that  the  reproach  was  so  unreasona- 
ble, so  undeserved,  and  so  unjust,  he  could  not 
make  a  word  of  reply. 

The  same  thing  occurred  with  regard  to  the 
rent,  when  the  next  quarter-day  came  round ;  for 
Richard  took  five  dollars  which  he  had  received 
for  bonnets,  and  appropriated  towards  meeting 
the  call  of  his  landlord.  Hannah  had  gone  out 
with  one  of  the  children,  when  this  occurred,  to 
take  a  ride  with  Doctor  Slop ;  and  when  she  re- 
turned, and  found  what  Richard  had  done,  she 
opened  upon  him  a  whole  volley  of  reproaches, 
declaring  his  conduct  to  be  mean  and  outrageous, 
and  telling  him  that  a  man  who  could  not  provide 
a  house  for  his  family  to  live  in,  without  taking 
his  wife's  earnings  to  help  pay  the  rent,  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  himself. 

Richard  was  greatly  distressed  ;  for,  besides 
receiving  such  heartless  treatment  from  one  whom 
he  had  loved  and  cherished  as  his  own  life  for  so 

i2 


120  THE   WIN  T  ERG  RE  EN. 

many  years,  and  who  had,  till  quite  recently,  al- 
ways given  him  her  warm  affections  in  return,  he 
now  began  to  be  much  perplexed  and  embarrass- 
ed in  pecuniary  affairs.  When  the  landlord  call- 
ed with  his  rent-bill,  which  was  thirty-seven  dol- 
lars arid  a  half,  all  that  Richard  could  muster  in 
the  shop  was  ten  dollars,  including  the  five  dollars 
received  for  bonnets.  After  considerable  diffi- 
culty, he  made  out  to  borrow  ten  more,  and  paid 
over  to  his  landlord  an  instalment  of  twenty  dol- 
lars. The  profits  of  his  business  had  fallen  off 
considerably  of  late,  for  he  was  obliged  to  devote 
much  of  his  time  to  looking  after  the  children,  and 
minding  both  sides  of  the  shop,  and  running  about 
to  borrow  money  to  meet  the  increasing  bills  that 
were  brought  in,  and  then,  again,  to  borrow  mo- 
ney to  pay  borrowed  money  with ;  so  that  he 
found  it  impossible  to  keep  his  stock  of  shoes  good, 
or  to  meet  the  demands  of  his  customers. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  some  time 
longer.  In  proportion  as  Hannah's  vanity  had 
become  stimulated,  she  grew  more  irritable  and 
unreasonable  ;  and  although,  in  the  presence  of 
Doctor  Slop  or  Lawyer  Sly,  she  was  all  smiles 
and  sunshine,  yet  she  was  anything  but  smiles  and 
sunshine  when  left  alone  with  Richard.  Do  what 


HENPECKERY.  121 

he  could,  he  was  never  safe  from  her  reproaches. 
Whatever  he  did,  it  was  never  enough,  or  never 
right.  If  he  set  such  a  table  as  his  means  would 
afford,  it  was  a  mean  table,  and  such  as  a  man 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  set  his  family  down  to. 
Such  a  mean  table  as  that  was  never  seen  in 
Doctor  Slop's  house.  And  if  Richard  went  be- 
yond his  means,  till  he  had  no  money  left  to  buy 
anything  with,  then  he  was  a  shiftless,  small  pat- 
tern of  a  man,  that  never  ought  to  have  had  a 
family,  if  he  could  not  provide  for  them,  or  take 
care  of  them.  Why  didn't  he  stir  about,  and 
have  some  enterprise,  and  do  something  to  get  a 
good  living,  as  Doctor  Slop  and  Lawyer  Sly  did? 
He  would  never  catch  them  to  be  out  of  money, 
or  to  keep  their  families  half-starved  or  ragged. 

Richard's  mind  and  body  both  began  to  droop 
under  this  state  of  things.  He  could  not  fight  or 
quarrel  with  his  wife  —  it  wa^s  like  striking  a  dag- 
ger into  his  own  heart ;  and  though,  for  awhile, 
he  sometimes  answered  reproach  with  reproach, 
he  soon  gave  it  up,  and  rounded  his  shoulders  to 
the  storm,  and  let  it  pour  on.  His  chief  study, 
after  this,  was  to  try  to  manage  things  so  as  to 
get  along,  from  day  to  day,  with  the  least  scold- 
ing. He  even  came  to  regard  the  visits  of  Doc- 


122  THE   WINTER  GREEN. 

tor  Slop  and  Lawyer  Sly  with  a  sort  of  pleasure, 
as  affording  him  a  temporary  relief;  for  whilq 
they  were  in  the  house,  feeding  Hannah's  vanity 
and  self-love  by  their  hints  at  her  beauty  and 
good  taste,  she  was  always  sure  to  be  in  good 
humour ;  and  sometimes  her  good  humour  would 
last,  if  nothing  crossed  her  path,  for  several  hours 
after  they  left.  Richard's  pecuniary  affairs,  by 
the  force  of  all  these  circumstances,  were  getting 
into  a  bad  way.  His  spirits  were  broken  —  he 
stooped  in  his  walk,  and  looked  care-worn  and 
feeble.  His  debts  and  embarrassments  increased 
—  many  bills  came  in,  which  he  could  not  meet ; 
and  when  quarter-day  came  round,  he  had  not  a 
dollar  for  his  landlord.  There  being  a  quarter 
and  a  half  of  rent  due,  and  no  prospect  of  any 
pay,  the  landlord  immediately  put  an  attachment 
upon  the  furniture  in  the  house,  and  upon  what 
goods  and  stock  there  was  in  the  shop  ;  and  sev- 
eral other  creditors  immediately  followed  with 
attachments,  amounting,  in  the  whole,  to  much 
more  than  the  things  could  possibly  sell  for. 

By  agreement,  it  was  arranged  that  an  imme- 
diate sale  of  the  articles  should  take  place,  with- 
out any  further  expenses  in  the  suit ;  and  the  next 
day,  at  twelve  o'clock,  was  fixed  for  the  hour. 


HENPECKERY.  123 

Richard  felt  as  though  the  world  was  over  with 
him,  and  it  mattered  not  much  whether  he  had  a 
house  and  a  home,  or  was  a  wanderer  in  the 
streets.  The  older  children  looked  and  felt  bad, 
but  could  hardly  realize  the  dreariness  of  their 
lot.  Hannah  was  almost  in  hysterics  —  nervous 
and  irritable ;  crying  one  minute,  scolding  at 
Richard  the  next,  and  then  crying  again.  She 
declared  she  would  not  stay  and  see  the  sale ; 
and  she  would  not  live  in  the  village  any  longer ; 
and  she  would  not  see  anybody  in  the  village 
again  ;  and  nobody  in  the  village  should  see  them 
going  out  of  it  like  a  pack  of  beggars,  for  she 
would  go  out  in  the  night. 

An  officer  was  left  in  charge  of  the  goods  and 
the  house,  which  the  family  were  permitted  to 
occupy  as  usual,  till  the  next  day.  That  night 
brought  them  but  little  sleep. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  —  I  should 
like  to  know,"  said  Hannah,  "  now  you  have 
brought  us  to  this  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  I  have  brought  us  to  this,"  said 
Richard. 

"  Yes,  you  have  brought  us  to  this,"  said  Han- 
nah  ;  "  if  you  have  not,  I  should  like  to  know 
who  has.  But  it's  no  use  to  be  talking  about 


124  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

that  now ;  all  is,  I  should  like  to  know  what  you 
are  agoing  to  do,  and  where  you  are  going  to." 

"  Well,  it  makes  not  much  odds  to  me,"  said 
Richard  ;  "  I  had  about  as  lives  go  one  way  as 
t'other." 

Finally,  in  the  course  of  the  night  there  seem- 
ed  to  be  an  understanding  between  them  to  take 
up  their  line  of  march  for  the  next  town,  about 
six  miles  distant,  where  they  had  heard,  a  month 
or  two  before,  that  a  shoemaker  was  wanted.  Ac- 
cordingly, just  about  daylight,  before  anybody  was 
stirring  in  the  village,  Richard  and  Hannah,  and 
the  five  children,  with  their  several  little  bundles 
of  clothing,  left  the  house  and  the  village,  and 
wandered  along  the  road  towards  the  next  town. 
The  morning  was  warm  and  cloudy,  and  some  of 
the  children  being  quite  small,  they  moved  but 
slowly  onward. 

About  nine  o'clock,  when  they  had  gone  be- 
tween four  and  five  miles,  and  had  just  come  to 
the  old  broken  guide-board,  where  the  road  turn- 
ed two  ways,  one  to  the  town  where  they  had 
thought  of  going,  and  the  other  towards  the 
neighbourhood  where  Mr.  Moses  Gardner  lived, 
who  should  they  see  but  Mr.  Gardner  himself, 
riding  down  the  road,  close  to  them,  on  his  old 


IIENPECKERY.  125 

black  mare.  One  of  his  neighbours  had  been  to 
the  village  the  night  before,  where  he  had  heard 
that  Sloman  and  his  family  were  in  difficulty,  and 
he  called  and  told  the  whole  story  to  Mr.  Gard- 
ner, who  started  immediately  after  breakfast  to  go 
to  the  village,  on  purpose  to  look  into  their  affairs. 
He  had  not  seen  or  heard  anything  from  them 
before  for  more  than  six  months,  as  he  seldom 
went  to  the  village,  and  the  report  his  neighbour 
brought  gave  him  a  good  deal  of  uneasiness.  He 
had  got  his  information  from  a  person  who  lived 
at  the  very  next  door  to  Sloman's,  and  knew  all 
about  their  affairs.  He  understood  from  this  per- 
son that  Mrs.  Sloman  had  carried  matters  with  a 
pretty  high  hand,  almost  ever  since  they  lived  in 
the  village  —  visiting,  and  receiving  visits,  and 
dressing  and  riding  about,  and  running  into  every 
little  extravagant  expense  that  she  took  a  fancy 
to,  neglecting  her  business  and  family,  till  they 
were  all  run  down,  and  everything  they  had  was 
attached. 

"  And  did  you  see  anything  of  Richard  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Gardner. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  neighbour,  "  I  saw  him  go  in 
and  out  of  his  shop  two  or  three  times,  but  not  to 
speak  to  him." 


136  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

"  Well,  how  did  he  appear?"  said  Mr.  Gardner. 

"  He's  amazingly  altered,"  said  the  neighbour ; 
"looks  care-worn,  and  stoops  a  good  deal  more 
than  he  used  to ;  and  I  never  see  a  man  that  look- 
ed so  much  cowed  down  in  all  my  life." 

Such  was  the  information  with  which  Mr.  Gard- 
ner had  started  that  morning  for  the  village.  As 
he  rode  up  to  the  group,  Richard  turned  a  few 
steps  away,  without  saying  a  word,  and  stood 
looking  up  the  road.  Hannah  covered  her  face 
with  her  hand,  and  wept  bitterly.  The  old  gen- 
tleman inquired  kindly  into  all  their  affairs,  and 
soon  got  their  story. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  "  instead  of  going  and 
trying  to  seek  your  fortune  in  the  next  town,  as 
you  are  talking  of,  you  had  better  go  right  up  into 
our  neighbourhood  again,  where  you  spent  ten 
years  so  happily,  and  try  to  live  them  over  again. 
And  my  word  for  it,  Hannah,  if  you  will  only 
mind  a  few  simple  rules  that  I'll  give  you,  though 
you  may  not  find  the  years  altogether  so  happy 
as  those  that  have  gone  by,  you  may  at  least  find 
them  quite  pleasant  and  comfortable." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gardner,  I'll  mind  anything  you  tell 
me,"  said  Hannah,  still  weeping. 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  the  old  gentle- 


HENPECKERY.  127 

man,  "  you  must  set  it  down  as  a  rule,  always  to 
live  within  your  income.  He  that  always  spends 
a  little  less  than  he  earns,  will  always  have  some- 
thing ahead  for  a  rainy  day,  and  will  find  himself 
every  year  growing  better  off.  When  you  havn't 
earnt  enough  to  buy  a  silk  dress,  wear  a  calico 
one,  or  fix  up  the  old  one  —  you  will  find  it  just 
as  comfortable.  And  when  you  havn't  earnt 
enough  to  buy  a  good  meal  of  victuals,  eat  a 
poorer  one  —  you  will  feel  full  as  well  the  next 
day.  And,  in  the  next  place,  you  must  let  Rich- 
ard carry  the  purse,  and  hold  the  purse-strings. 
Put  whatever  you  can  into  the  purse,  but  let  Rich- 
ard lay  out  the  money.  He  doesn't  drink,  and 
never  spends  his  money  foolishly,  but  lays  it  out 
to  the  best  advantage,  for  the  good  of  his  family ; 
and  he  understands  it  much  better  than  you  do  — 
he's  good  at  figures,  and  you  aint  —  and  he'll 
make  a  dollar  go  as  far  as  you'll  make  two  go. 
Now,  just  go  up  here  to  the  old  place  again,  and 
mind  these  things,  and  if  you  don't  find  the  world 
roll  along  quite  comfortably  with  you,  I'll  agree 
to  support  you  and  your  family.  But  these  chil- 
dren look  tired,"  continued  the  old  gentleman, 
looking  round  upon  them ;  "  have  they  had  any 
breakfast  ?" 


128  THEWINTERGREEN. 

Hannah  said  they  had  not. 

"  Well,  it  is  high  time  they  had,"  said  Mr. 
Gardner,  taking  out  his  purse,  and  putting  his 
hand  into  it ;  "  here,  take  some  money,  and  stop 
at  the  little  tavern,  which  is  a  few  rods  ahead, 
and  get  you  all  a  good  breakfast.  Get  some  ba- 
con and  eggs  and  coffee  for  you  and  Richard,  and 
a  good  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  for  the  children  ; 
and  then  go  on,  and  stop  at  my  house,  and  tell 
Richard  he  better  go  and  see  if  he  can't  engage 
the  old  place  again,  for  it  hasn't  been  occupied 
lately ;  and  I'll  go  on  down  to  the  village,  and 
see  if  I  can't  contrive  some  plan  to  save  a  part  of 
your  furniture." 

So  saying,  he  pursued  his  way  toward  the  vil- 
lage, and  the  family  group  went  forward  to  the 
tavern,  where  they  followed  Mr.  Gardner's  direc- 
tions to  the  letter  with  regard  to  their  breakfast. 


THE   GRAVE    OF  THE   LOWLY. 


I  WOULD  take  my  last  sleep  in  the  shadowy  vale, 

'Mid  the  flowers  I  love  so  well, 
And  echo  should  mournfully  whisper  the  tale 

Where  the  wood-bird  its  sweet  grief  would  tell. 

And  above  the  green,  moss-covered  turf,  where  T  lay, 

Should  the  quivering  Columbine  bend  ; 
And  the  sweet-brier  roses,  their  melting  perfume 

To  the  zephyrs  around  me  should  lend. 

This  summer-time  covert  a  cheerful  green  home 

For  the  timid  young  squirrel  might  be  ; 
Where,  storing  away  his  rich  winter  supply, 

No  eye  could  his  gambollings  see. 

And  here  should  the  plaintive-voiced,  sad  whip-poor-will, 

When  slowly  away  fades  the  light, 
Alone  on  the  rock,  in  solemn  tones  breathe 

His  touching  appeal  to  the  night. 


130  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

Oft,  beside  the  still  stream,  to  this  spot  shall  repair, 
The  friend  whom  my  soul  holds  most  dear ; 

The  heart's  pure  resolve,  and  the  holiest  prayer, 
Shall  be  borne  up  by  blest  spirits  near. 

Here  matins  shall  rise  on  the  odorous  breath 
Of  the  morning-gale,  swift  to  the  sky ; 

And  at  eventide  hour  here  vespers  shall  bring 
Full  stores  of  deep  love  from  on  high. 

The  song-sparrow,  won  to  this  quiet  retreat, 

Shall  awaken  the  free  air  with  joy, 
As  she  tenderly  rears  here  her  chirruping  brood, 

With  no  stranger's  rude  step  to  annoy. 

Oh !  make  my  last  home,  then,  away  in  the  glade, 
'Mid  the  wildlings  I've  cherish'd  so  well ; 

Where  naught  save  the  wood-bird,  and  floweret  fair, 
Of  the  Grave  of  the  Lowly  may  tell. 


"HOW  CHEERY  ARE  THE  MARINERS!" 


BY  PARK  BENJAMIN- 

How  cheery  are  the  mariners  — 

Those  lovers  of  the  sea ! 
Their  hearts  are  like  its  yesty  waves, 

As  bounding  and  as  free. 
They  whistle  when  the  storm-bird  wheels 

In  circles  round  the  mast ; 
And  sing  when  deep  in  foam  the  ship 

Ploughs  onward  to  the  blast. 

What  care  the  mariners  for  gales  ? 

There's  music  in  their  roar, 
When  wide  the  berth  along  the  lee, 

And  leagues  of  room  before. 
Let  billows  toss  to  mountain  heights, 

Or  sink  to  chasms  low, 
The  vessel  stout  will  ride  it  out, 

Nor  reel  beneath  the  blow. 

With  streamers  down,  and  canvass  furl'd, 

The  gallant  hull  will  float 
Securely,  as  on  inland  lake 

A  silken-tassell'd  boat. 

K2 


THE  WINTERGREEN. 

And  sound  asleep  some  mariners, 
And  some  with  watchful  eyes, 

Will  fearless  be  of  dangers  dark 
That  roll  along  the  skies. 

God  keep  those  cheery  mariners ! 

And  temper  all  the  gales 
That  sweep  against  the  rocky  coast 

To  their  storm-shatter'd  sails ; 
And  men  on  shore  will  bless  the  ship 

That  could  so  guided  be, 
Safe  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 

To  brave  the  mighty  sea ! 


ALLAN  GRAY. 


Miss  EDGEWORTH  affirms  that  none  ever  loved 
without  a  reasonable  degree  of  hope  ;  but  as  none 
of  the  passions  wait  upon  the  understanding,  and 
love  is  the  least  controllable  of  them  all,  her  as- 
sertion may  be  disproved  by  innumerable  in- 
stances, from  the  fabled  days  of  Pygmalion  down 
to  those  of  Allan  Gray,  the  gardener. 

Allan  was  the  son  of  an  English  gardener,  who 
had  come  over  to  America  in  the  hope  of  realizing 
those  golden  dreams  which  so  often  tempt  foreign- 
ers to  our  shores.  He  brought  with  him  a  wife 
and  several  children,  and  after  the  usual  struggles 
which  strangers  must  undergo  without  money, 
without  friends,  without  knowledge  of  the  coun- 
try—  after  removing  from  place  to  place,  and 
losing  all  their  children  except  one,  William  Gray 
and  his  wife  settled  themselves,  with  their  survi- 
ving son,  in  the  south,  where  he  was  fortunate 


134  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

enough  to  procure  a  place  as  gardener  at  the  seat 
of  Mr.  Camelford,  a  gentleman  of  large  fortune, 
who,  though  he  spent  little  time  at  Camelford 
Hall,  took  infinite  pride  in  preserving  it  in  all  the 
beauty  and  order  with  which  he  received  it  from 
his  fathers. 

Mrs.  Gray  had  been  born  to  better  fortunes  ; 
but  the  truly  noble  spirit  prefers  independence, 
even  as  a  gardener's  wife,  to  the  luxuries  which 
may  be  purchased  by  the  surrender  of  one's  time, 
taste,  and  opinions.  Mary,  however,  had  tasted 
dependence  in  its  mildest  shape.  She  had  filled 
the  place  of  humble  companion  to  two  elderly 
ladies,  who  lived  in  profound  retirement,  and  pass- 
ed their  time  chiefly  in  reading.  Their  choice  of 
books,  too,  was  excellent.  Sisters  and  daughters 
of  men  of  learning,  they  had  early  imbibed  a 
taste  for  the  best  kind  of  reading,  while  they  by 
no  means  despised  the  lighter  part  of  the  belies 
lettres.  When  their  eyes  began  to  fail,  they  took 
Mary  Owen  into  their  house  as  a  reader  and  com- 
panion. Her  task  was  an  easy  one,  and  suited  to 
her  inclinations,  and  bitterly  did  she  lament  them 
when  they  died.  She  had  lived  peacefully  with 
them  till  she  was  twenty-four,  and  at  their  death 
found  herself  as  friendless  as  when  they  had  first 


ALLAN   GRAY.  135 

given  her  an  asylum.  Their  little  fortune  was 
entailed,  and  they  had  nothing  to  leave  Mary  but 
some  old-fashioned  bijouterie,  and  a  part  of  their 
library. 

It  was  a  descent  from  her  high  expectations 
(for  a  pretty  girl  who  reads  a  good  many  novels 
will  form  high  expectations)  to  marry  William 
Gray ;  but  she  had  come  to  years  of  discretion, 
and  after  some  few  struggles  she  gave  him  her 
hand,  and  made  him  a  faithful  and  obedient  wife, 
excepting  only  in  one  thing.  William  did  not 
wish  his  son  to  receive  an  education  that  would 
unfit  him  for  his  station.  He  had  looked  over 
Mary's  books,  and  found  a  great  deal  that  would 
prove  dangerous  to  Allan,  who  was  a  boy  of  a 
quiet,  shy  disposition,  hating  all  manual  labour, 
and  adoring  nature  with  a  poet's  passion.  He  was 
obliged,  however,  to  work  as  his  father's  assist- 
ant, but  at  night  he  came  home  to  enjoy,  as  his 
hour  of  luxury,  his  mother's  conversation,  and  the 
books  she  selected  for  him.  It  would  have  been 
hardly  possible  for  Mary  to  have  crushed  the 
"  glowing  rage,"  which  promised  her  in  her  son 
what  she  had  never  found  in  her  husband — com- 
panionship ;  without  which,  wedded  life  wants  its 
chief  enjoyment.  In  William  Gray,  Mary  had 


136  THE    WINT  ERG  KEEN. 

found  a  protector  and  friend,  but  not  a  companion  ; 
and  her  chilled  spirit  only  glowed,  when  she  look- 
ed forward  to  the  cultivation  of  Allan's  mind  as  a 
solace  for  the  many  lonely,  weary  hours  she  had 
spent,  even  with  William  by  her  side.  Allan 
'would  read  till  his  father  woke  from  his  first  sleep, 
and  repeat  his  commands  to  him  to  go  to  bed,  that 
he  might  rise  with  the  dawn.  He  was  a  fair  and 
delicate-looking  boy,  with  an  air  of  gentility,  and 
a  thoughtful,  pensive  countenance,  that  is  rarely 
met  among  the  labouring  class.  Habit  had 
reconciled  him  at  length  to  his  monotonous  em- 
ployment, though  there  were  times  when  he 
longed  to  escape  from  the  formality  of  the  garden 
and  smooth-shaven  green,  to  the  depths  of  the 
forest  —  to  the  blue  river  that  sparkled  in  the 
sunbeams.  There  were  none  of  the  forms  of 
nature  round  him  that  are  said  to  inspire  a  love 
for  her.  The  mountain  and  the  cataract  are 
wanting  to  those  parts  of  the  southern  states 
which  border  on  the  Atlantic,  but  the  forests  are 
adorned  with  a  rich  and  lavish  vegetation.  A 
profusion  of  wild  flowers  shed  a  delicious  perfume 
on  the  air,  which  intoxicates  the  senses.  There 
is  a  vividness,  too,-  in  the  tints  of  the  sky,  a  gor- 
geous colouring,  that  is  rarely  seen  in  more  cloudy 


ALLAN   GRAY.  137 

climes.  All  these  to  Allan  were  a  "  passion  and 
a  iife"  —  he  poured  out  the  deep  tenderness  of  his 
heart  on  inanimate  nature.  Its 

44  Colours  and  its  forms  were  then  to  him 
An  appetite,  a  feeling,  and  a  love." 

But  the  hour  was  coming,  when  the  intensity 
of  his  feelings  were  to  turn  inward,  and  prey  upon 
themselves.  He  was  one  day  carrying  a  young 
tree,  which  he  intended  to  transplant,  to  the  house, 
when  he  observed  an  unusual  bustle ;  the  win- 
dows were  all  open,  the  portico  and  steps  were 
covered  with  trunks,  and  a  number  of  servants 
appeared  to  have  just  arrived.  A  few  words  ex- 
plained it  all  —  Mr.  Camelford  was  coming  to 
the  Hall  with  all  the  family.  He  had  frequently 
spent  several  weeks  there,  but  Mrs.  Camelford 
preferred  living  at  an  estate  in  a  remote  part  of 
the  country.  Of  late,  however,  the  whole  fam- 
ily had  been  travelling  in  Europe,  and  were  now 
coming  to  Camelford  Hall,  to  repose  awhile  after 
the  voyage.  Allan  heard  the  news  with  regret 
—  he  really  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  being 
seen,  by  persons  of  education,  hoeing  and  weed- 
ing. He  felt  himself  superior  to  his  situation, 
and  shrunk  from  the  idea  of  being  confounded 
with  the  rude  labourers  who  surrounded  him. 


138  THE  WiNTERGREEN 

Foolish  as  were  his  feelings,  they  preyed  so  much 
upon  his  mind  that  he  became  too  ill  to  go  out, 
and  for  several  days  after  the  family  arrived,  he 
was  confined  to  his  room. 

At  last  the  old  man,  who  suspected  there  was  a 
degree  of  morbidness  in  his  feelings,  insisted  upon 
his  accompanying  him  to  the  garden.  Allan  could 
not  refuse,  but  he  took  care  to  hide  himself  in  a 
corner  furthest  from  the  house.  Seeing  that  no 
one  took  any  notice  of  him,  he  ventured  one  morn- 
ing out  of  his  nook,  but  would  gladly  have  crept 
back,  when  his  father  desired  him  to  carry  a  bas- 
ket of  roses  to  the  garden-gate,  and  give  them  to 
Mrs.  Camelford's  maid.  There  was  no  evading 
the  command.  He  took  them,  and  was  slowly 
and  reluctantly  proceeding  up  the  walk,  wrhen 
suddenly  he  was  startled  by  a  form  approaching, 
which  appeared,  indeed,  to  him,  "  another  morn 
risen  on  mid-day."  As  the  vision  drew  near,  he 
doubted  his  senses.  Was  it  indeed  a  living  crea- 
ture he  beheld,  or  some  angelic  visitant  ?  Con- 
fused and  breathless,  he  drew  to  the  side  of  the 
walk,  and  leaned  against  a  tree.  Laura  Camel- 
ford,  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  the  flowers  he 
held,  came  close  up  to  him,  and,  not  observing  his 
excessive  emotion,  said,  in  a  voice  of  flute-like 


ALLAN   GRAY.  139 

melody,  "I  may  take  one  of  these,  I  suppose  ;" 
then,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  and  without 
even  turning  her  eyes  on  him,  she  took  a  rose 
from  the  basket,  and  walked  on.  Exhausted  with 
the  excitement,  Allan  sunk  upon  the  ground. 
Never  yet  had  such  a  vision  dawned  upon  him. 
High  as  was  the  idea  he  had  formed  of  beauty, 
his  fancy  had  never  pictured  such  a  shape  and 
countenance.  He  lay  for  some  time  wrapt  in 
such  an  exquisite  reverie,  that  it  was  not  till  he 
heard  a  sharp,  angry  voice  close  to  his  ear,  that 
he  sprang  on  his  feet,  and  listened  to  the  scolding 
of  Mrs.  Camelford's  little  Creole  maid,  who  had 
first  waited  for  him  a  long  time,  and  then  sought 
him  all  over  the  garden. 

Allan's  feelings,  during  the  rest  of  the  day, 
were  wild  and  tumultuous.  He  scarcely  knew 
what  it  was  he  had  seen  ;  but  he  felt  that  it  would 
have  some  influence  on  his  destiny.  He  had 
woke  to  a  new  state  of  existence ;  some  fairy 
charm  had  been  applied  to  his  eyes,  and  he  now 
felt  as  if  his  past  life  had  been  a  blank.  He 
could  define  none  of  his  sensations,  yet  they  were 
all  a  new-found  treasure  to  him  —  he  dared  not 
ask  himself  what  they  meant.  Like  the  statue 
in  Rousseau's  little  drama,  just  wakened  into  con- 


140  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

sciousness,  he  could  only  repeat,  in  wonder  at 
himself,  "  It  is  I  —  it  is  I." 

When  he  went  home  at  night,  he  found  his 
mother  anxiously  expecting  him.  "  Dear  Allan," 
she  cried,  "  see  what  I  have  for  you ;"  and  she 
held  out  the  "  Tales  of  the  Crusaders,"  which 
she  had  asked  a  neighbour  to  bring  her  from 
town.  Poor  Mary  was  disappointed  at  the  ab- 
stracted air  with  which  Allan  received  her  pres- 
ent ;  but  though,  shortly  after  that  time,  he  pe- 
rused, with  intense  interest,  the  tale  of  the  Knight 
of  the  Leopard,  his  mind  was  too  much  engrossed 
with  his  own  feelings,  on  that  evening,  to  be  won 
even  by  the  spells  of  the  mighty  magician,  Scott. 

For  several  successive  days,  Allan  watched  in 
vain  for  the  figure  that  still  haunted  his  fancy,  and 
at  last  began  to  think  that  he  had  been  under  the 
influence  of  a  dream.  He  was  musing  over  his 
disappointment  one  day,  when  he  heard  again  the 
voice  that  had  before  bewildered  his  senses  —  he 
listened,  breathless  with  delight,  but  it  died  away, 
and  presently  his  father's  rough  voice  was  heard 
calling  for  Allan.  In  his  impatience  to  behold 
again  her  wrhose  voice  recalled  his  dazzling 
dream,  he  rushed  forward,  and  found  himself  sud- 
denly in  the  presence  of  Miss  Camelford  and  her 


ALL  AX   GRAY.  141 

father.  "  Come  here,  and  take* Madam's  direc- 
tions about  a  flower-bed,"  said  the  old  man,  pull- 
ing him  from  behind  the  rose-bush,  where  he  had 
shrunk  as  he  met  the  full  gaze  of  Laura's  eyes. 

"  Come  out,"  muttered  the  old  man ;  "  fool!  must 

• 

I  always  be  ashamed  of  you  ?"  and  he  pushed 
him  towards  Laura,  who  said,  mildly,  "  I  only 
want  you  to  prepare  some  ground  for  these  seeds. 
Papa  says  I  may  have  all  this  square  for  my  own 
flowers.  Leave  all  the  trees,  but  take  away  all 
these  balsams  and  marigolds  ;  you  may  give  them 
away,  if  you  please.  Papa,"  she  cried,  drawing 
her  father  to  her,  "  you  know  all  this  square  is  to 
be  mine  ?" 

"  Yes,  love  —  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
it?" 

"  Why,  make  a  paradise  of  it.  Can  you  find," 
said  she,  in  an  encouraging  voice,  to  Allan,  "any 
young  olives  and  laurel-trees  that  would  bear 
transplanting?  Perhaps,"  she  continued,  after 
waiting  some  time  for  an  answer,  "you  know 
those  trees  by  some  other  name  ?" 

"No,  ma'am,  no,"  interrupted  his  father,  eager- 
ly ;  "  he  knows  them  well  enough,  only  he's  a  fool." 

"  Nay,  don't  frighten  him ;  I  will  explain  to 
him." 


142  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

"  I  do  understand  you,"  said  the  trembling  boy  ; 
"  you  wish  your  garden  planted  with  the  trees  and 
flowers  we  read  of  in  poetry." 

"  Read  of  in  poetry !"  thought  Laura  ;  the 

gardeners  in  C are  very  refined.  "  You 

have  understood  me,"  said  she,  smiling ;  "prepare 
the  ground,  and  I  will  come  to-morrow  evening, 
and  give  you  further  directions." 

Dear  reader,  you  surely  remember  the  hour 
when  you  felt  the  first  breath  of  passion  upon  your 
heart  —  when  the  chords  of  that  mysterious,  won- 
drous instrument,  were  first  struck  by  a  viewless 
touch,  which,  like  the  winds  of  summer  playing 
over  the  ^Eolian  harp,  woke  a  strange  delicious 
melody  within  you.  Have  you  ever,  in  after  life, 
felt  anything  to  equal  those  first  hours  of  love  ? 
Would  they  not  be  cheaply  purchased  back  by  all 
ye  have  since  held  dear  ?  Honour,  power,  wrealth, 
and  fame  —  have  any  of  them  a  charm  so  pre- 
cious 1  Alas !  we  taste  but  once  of  that  bliss 
which  Theckla,  in  her  passionate  song,  has  called 
the  bliss  of  earth. 

Allan  worked  hard  all  the  next  day,  and  by  the 
appointed  hour  everything  was  in  readiness.  He 
had  brought  young  olive-trees  from  the  grounds, 
and  magnolias  from  the  woods,  and  only  waited 


ALLAN   GRAY.  143 

Miss  Camelford's  direction.  It  was  a  beautiful 
evening  in  April.  The  moon,  with  a  single  star 
beside  her,  was  seen  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  while 
the  monarch  of  day  still  flamed  in  the  gorgeous 
west.  The  air  was  laden  with  the  perfume  of 
the  orange-flower.  Allan's  senses  were  refined, 
by  the  new  and  unknown  power  which  had  waked 
him  to  a  new  existence ;  his  heart  was  glowing 
with  undefmable  sensations ;  he  clasped  to  his 
heart  the  mute  and  lifeless  forms  around  him. 
There  was  an  energy  in  his  feelings  that  longed 
to  speak,  but  he  trembled  as  he  first  heard  his 
own  lips  utter  the  name  of  one  so  far,  far  above 
him.  He  felt  as  if  he  should  have  died  under  the 
weight  of  his  emotion,  and  almost  fainted  when 
Laura  appeared,  walking  slowly  with  her  mother, 
leaning  on  her  arm.  The  sight  of  her  overpow- 
ered the  young  enthusiast ;  he  turned  aside,  and 
tears  came  into  his  eyes  —  the  tears  which  are 
shed  but  once  in  life.  Soon,  very  soon,  is  their 
source  dried  up  ;  and  though  we  may  weep  the  tears 
of  sorrow  or  remorse,  the  drops  that  flow  from  a 
heart  o'erfraught  with  passion,  are  shed  but  at  one 
season  of  the  heart.  Mrs.  Camelford  walked  so 
feebly,  that  Allan  had  time  to  assume  something 
like  composure  before  Laura  reached  the  spot. 

L2 


144  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

Miss  Camelford  was  just  sixteen,  and  so  very 
beautiful,  that  even  old  age  could  not  look  on  her 
unmoved.  The  old  did  not  accompany  their 
praise  of  her  exquisite  face  with  any  comparison 
with  the  beauties  of  their  day.  The  rich  auburn 
of  her  luxuriant  tresses  mocked  the  eye,  now  with 
wavy  lines  of  gold,  and  now  with  masses  of  brown, 
that  contrasted  beautifully  with  her  snow-white 
forehead.  Her  eyes  were  of  that  soft,  dark  ha- 
zel, which  admits  of  so  much  expression  ;  but  it 
was  not  the  perfect  form  of  her  features,  or  the 
rich  colouring  of  her  lips  and  cheeks,  that  struck 
the  beholder  with  delight.  It  was  the  uncreated 
beauty  shed  over  them  all  —  the  expression  of 
goodness  that  explained,  to  every  mind  of  sensi- 
bility, what  the  most  gifted  of  modern  bards  has 
called  the  music  beaming  from  a  face. 

"  Ah !  you  have  brought  some  of  the  trees  I 
wanted,"  said  she,  with  a  gracious  smile,  as  Allan 
pointed  to  his  collection.  "  Observe,  then,  where- 
ever  I  mark,  you  must  plant  one.  Now,"  she 
continued,  after  having  flitted  from  spot  to  spot, 
"  here  you  must  make  a  fountain,  and  round  it 
plant  tube-roses,  Indian  jasmines,  flowering  pom- 
egranates, and  all  the  flowers  of  the  East  that  will 
grow  in  this  climate.  You  know  them,  I  believe, 


ALLAN   GRAY.  145 

and  here  are  the  seeds  and  roots  I  want  planted 
—  is  this  the  season  ?" 

"  Leave  them,"  said  Allan  ;  "  I  will  obey  you." 
"  Mamma,"  said  Laura,  going  back,  and  whisper- 
ing to  her  mother,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  make 
of  this  boy  —  he  understands  everything  I  say, 
yet  it  is  with  the  utmost  difficulty  I  can  get  him 
to  answer  me,  and  he  seems  terrified  if  I  only 
look  at  him." 

"  He  is  abashed,"  said  Mrs.  Camelford ;  "  do 
not  give  him  too  many  directions  at  a  time  — you 
speak  so  fast,  that  he  will  never  remember  all 
you  have  told  him.  Let  me  speak  to  him."  Mrs. 
Camelford  called  Allan  to  her,  and  asked  him 
several  questions  about  his  parents  and  himself. 
The  propriety  of  his  language  surprised  her,  and 
she  inquired  into  the  cause  of  it. 

"My  mother,"  said  Allan,  "is  a  woman  of 
more  education  than  is  common  in  her  humble 
station.  She  has  been  my  instructress,  though, 
from  want  of  time  and  books,  I  am  too  ignorant 
to  ))o  a  fit  companion  for  her." 

"  Poor  boy,"  said  Laura,  as  they  proceeded  on 
their  walk,  "  he  is  fond  of  reading,  and  yet  has  no 
books,  or  at  least  very  few  —  pray  let  me  give 
him  some  ;  he  seems  different  from  all  the  other 
labourers  about  the  grounds." 


146  THE    W  I  NT  ERG  KEEN. 

"  Not  yet,  my  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Camelford ; 
"  if  you  give  him  books,  you  must  give  him  time, 
and  I  must  first  make  some  inquiry  into  his  story. 
At  present,  everything  tells  to  his  advantage." 

Two  or  three  months  passed  on,  and  Laura's 
garden  began  to  have  a  flourishing  appearance. 
Vegetation  is  so  rapid  in  the  south,  that  trees  and 
flowers  spring  up  as  if  by  enchantment,  when 
they  are  well  watered  and  shaded.  The  young 
gardener  worked  incessantly  in  this  spot,  which 
was  all  the  world  to  him.  He  talked  of  it  in  his 
sleep ;  he  read  nothing  but  what  related  to  flow- 
ers ;  and,  during  the  first  three  months  of  the 
family's  stay  at  the  Hall,  he  was  the  happiest  of 
created  beings. 

Allan  would  have  started  had  any  one  asked  him 
what  he  looked  forward  to  —  what  he  hoped  for. 
He  knew  he  was  the  victim  of  delusion,  but  he 
cherished  his  madness,  for  it  was  sweeter  than  any 
reality  he  had  ever  known.  He  dared  not  inquire 
into  the  cause  of  his  felicity  —  it  is  only  rational 
happiness  that  can  sit  down  and  reason  upon  it. 
The  moments  in  which  Allan  woke  from  his  rev- 
eries, (in  which  were  pictured  youths  of  low  de- 
gree winning  the  smiles  and  favour  of  high-born 
beauty  by  deeds  of  prowess,  and  all  the  imagery 


ALLAN  GRAY.  147 

of  other  ages  and  other  countries,)  were  the  bit- 
terest of  his  life.  He  would  wake  from  one  of 
these  day-dreams,  and  look  down  upon  his  soiled 
hands,  his  coarse  clothing,  and  utter  the  wailings 
of  despair  as  he  thought  of  what  he  was,  and 
what  he  must  remain.  Still,  he  was  happy. 
Laura  came  every  evening  into  the  garden,  with 
her  two  little  brothers ;  and  while  they  played 
about,  she  would  sit  on  a  rustic  seat  beneath  the 
trees,  reading^  or  plunged  in  thought,  till  the  dews 
of  night  warned  her  home.  Allan  never  dared 
remain  in  the  square  she  called  her  own,  but  re- 
tired to  a  distance,  from  whence  he  could  gaze  on 
her  unobserved.  The  indulgence  of  this  wild 
passion  began  at  last  to  prey  on  his  health.  The 
excited,  fevered  state  of  his  feelings,  robbed  him 
of  rest.  His  cheek  became  flushed  with  a  hectic 
glow,  and  .his  eyes  grew  brighter  and  wilder 
every  day ;  nor  was  it  long  before  the  feelings 
which  had  raised  him  to  rapture  became  stings  of 
torture  to  him.  The  malignant  spirits  that  so 
often  wait  on  love,  took  possession  of  his  soul. 
Laura  ceased  to  visit  her  garden  ;  Mrs.  Camel- 
ford's  returning  health  allowed  her  husband  to  fill 
the  house  with  company;  there  were  frequent 
balls  and  entertainments  at  the  Hall,  which  threw 


148  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

Allan  into  despair.  He  saw  no  longer  the  bright 
particular  star  of  his  idolatry,  and  his  tortured 
fancy  pictured  her  already  the  prize  of  one  of  the 
happy  youths,  whom  he  saw  sometimes  saunter- 
ing through  the  shrubbery.  There  was  a  family 
in  the  neighborhood  with  whom  she  often  spent 
a  week  at  a  time,  but  still  she  did  not  forget  her 
love  of  flowers.  Every  day  Menie,  the  little 
Creole,  came  to  Allan  for  the  brightest  and  sweet- 
est he  could  find  —  it  was  with  a  sinking  heart  he 
gave  them  to  her,  and  then  returned  to  his  work. 
One  night  he  lingered  long  after  dark  in  the 
garden.  The  lights  in  the  house  attracted  him, 
and  scarcely  knowing  what  he  did,  he  drew 
nearer  and  nearer,  till  he  found  himself  in  front 
of  a  large  window  opening  on  the  portico.  There 
was  a  crowd  of  young  ladies  round  Laura,  who 
was  going  to  sing.  Trembling  lest  he  might  be 
seen,  he  retired  to  a  dark  corner  under  the  por- 
tico, where  every  note  of  Laura's  voice  reached 
his  ear.  Presently  the  rich  deep  tones  of  a  man's 
voice  mingled  with  the  strain.  Allan  went  home 
that  night,  with  a  heavier  load  than  ever  at  his 
heart.  Next  evening  he  was  employed  in  mak- 
ing her  an  arbor  of  basket  work,  in  hopes  of 
attracting  her  attention  once  more  to  her  garden, 


ALLAN    GRAY.  149 

when  suddenly  she  stood  before  him.  In  gene- 
ral,  she  made  known  her  approach  by  her  spor- 
tive voice,  or  her  rapid  footsteps  ;  but  this  even- 
ing she  was  silent  and  thoughtful.  She  took  no 
notice  of  Allan,  who  at  last  ventured  to  address 
her.  "  The  Druid's  seat,  you  ordered  so  long 
ago,  is  finished,  and  this  arbor  is  almost  ready  for 
the  vines  to  be  drawn  over  it." 

"  Oh  !  thank  you  —  you  are  very  industrious, 
very  ingenious.  Have  you  seen  any  one  pass 
this  way  ]" 

"  No,  madam,"  said  he  ;  and  he  turned  pale  as 
he  marked  the  troubled  expression  of  her  eye. 
She  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time,  and  then 
turned  abruptly  to  Allan  —  "  Do  you  think  that 
japonica  will  bloom  by  to-morrow  ?" 

"  It  is  impossible,"  said  Allan. 

"  And  is  that  the  most  forward  of  all  ?"  asked 
Laura,  with  a  disappointed  look. 

"  It  is  —  but  if  you  wish  a  japonica,  only  say  so, 
and  I  will  bring  you  one." 

"  Can  you  ?  Oh,  yes  !  pray  let  me  have  one 
by  ten  o'clock  to-morrow,  and  I  will  give  you 
anything  you  ask  for  it." 

Alas  !  thought  the  unhappy  boy,  to  touch  those 
tresses  but  once,  and  die  !  His  emotion  grew  so 


150  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

violent  that  Laura  would  have  perceived  it,  had 
not  her  whole  soul  been  absorbed  in  watching 
for  a  footstep.  Presently  one  was  heard  —  and 
springing  up  like  a  startled  fawn,  she  flew  from 
the  arbor.  A  young  gentleman  now  approached 
— and  coming  up  to  Allan,  said — "My  good  lad 
have  you  seen  any  one  pass  this  way  ?"  There 
was  nothing  haughty  in  his  bearing,  but  Allan 
thought  he  should  have  sunk  to  the  earth,  as  he 
looked  on  the  magnificent  person  of  Mr.  Manner- 
ing —  his  open  forehead,  and  eye  that  flashed  with 
youth  and  genius.  He  could  scarcely  falter  out 
a  negative  ;  and  Mr.  M.  coming  up  to  a  japoni- 
ca,  muttered,  "  It  will  never  bloom  by  to-morrow, 
how  provoking  !"  and  he  turned  and  left  the  gar- 
den. In  a  few  minutes  he  passed  by  again,  with 
Laura  leaning  on  his  arm.  Her  cheek  was  no 
longer  pale ;  she  was  listening,  with  downcast 
eyes,  and  a  varying  colour,  to  the  whispered  tale 
of  her  companion.  The  miserable  Allan  threw 
himself  upon  the  ground,  and  tore  his  hair,  with 
the  wildest  exclamations  of  despair.  His  agony 
at  that  moment  showed  him  what  his  future  life 
must  be.  "  I  can  die,"  he  uttered  at  length  ;  and 
the  idea  that  death  would  end  his  sufferings,  in- 
spired  him  with  courage.  He  rose  and  left  the 


ALLAN    GRAY.  151 

spot,  with  all  the  stings  of  jealousy  gnawing  at 
his  heart. 

The  next  morning  there  was  a  brilliant  scene 
at  the  Hall.  At  the  front  door  were  drawn  up 
carriages  of  all  descriptions  ;  ladies,  in  elegant 
morning  dresses,  stood  in  the  portico,  ready  to  set 
out  for  a  breakfast  party  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Laura  stood  on  the  steps  ;  a  lace  veil  covered 
part  of  her  hair,  and  a  light  wreath  of  myrtle 
adorned  the  front.  Her  lover  stood  beside  her. 
Poor  Allan  was  drawing  near,  with  weary  steps ; 
in  his  hand  he  held  the  brilliant  flowers  he  had 
walked  ten  miles  to  find.  Laura  sprang  down 
the  steps,  and  ran  to  meet  him. 

"Thank  you  —  thank  you,"  cried  she  gaily, 
taking  them  from  his  hand,  and  putting  them  into 
Mr.  Mannering's.  The  whole  party  were  now 
driving  off,  but  Laura  waited  till  Mannering  had 
placed  the  japonicas  in  her  hair,  then  turned 
away  and  stepped  lightly  into  her  lover's  curricle. 
They  drove  off  without  Laura's  observing  that 
Allan  had  fainted. 

On  her  return  at  night,  she  ran  gaily  into  her 
mother's  dressing-room,  where  she  met  with  a 
grave  reprimand  for  her  vanity  and  selfishness,  in 
sending  a  slender  lad  of  seventeen,  ten  miles  for 


152  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

a  flower  for  her  hair,  when  the  shrubbery  was 
filled  with  various  kinds.  Laura  wept  to  hear 
that  Allan  had  been  carried  home  ill,  but  de- 
clared with  truth,  that  she  had  not  been  aware 
that  he  intended  going  so  far  on  her  account. 
Mrs.  Camelford  was  seriously  grieved  at  what 
she  thought  Laura's  selfishness,  and  sent  every 
day  attendants  and  luxuries  to  the  poor  invalid. 
Laura,  who  had  not  been  to  blame,  went  every 
day  to  ask  Mrs.  Gray  how  her  son  was.  The 
sound  of  her  voice  gently  enquiring  after  him, 
healed  for  awhile  the  wounds  of  Allan's  heart, 
but  they  bled  afresh  when  he  dragged  himself  to 
the  cottage  door  one  day,  in  order  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  her,  and  saw  that  Mr.  Mannering  was 
her  companion.  She  stopped  before  she  reached 
the  door  and  sent  Mannering  away,  then  ap- 
proaching Allan,  she  graciously  and  sweetly  ex- 
pressed her  sorrow  for  having  occasioned  his  ill- 
ness. "  I  am  going  to  town  in  a  few  days,  with 
mamma,"  said  she,  blushing  deeply,  "  will  you 
take  these  books  to  amuse  you,  when  you  are 
well  enough  to  read,"  and  she  took  a  basket  from 
her  brother,  who  followed  her.  "  There  is  not 
much  poetry  here,  and  your  mother  tells  me  you 
love  poetry  dearly ;  however,  papa  chose  most  of 


ALLAN    GRAY.  153 

the  books."  Allan  could  only  bend  his  head  — 
"  Pray  do  not  go  to  work  too  early  in  my  garden  ; 
I  will  not  recommend  it  to  your  care.  You  have 
already  been  too  industrious,  and  I  shall  not  be 
glad  to  see  it  in  fine  order  until  you  are  perfectly 
strong  again." 

"Oh,  Miss  Camelford!"  exclaimed  Allan, 
speaking  of  himself  for  the  first  time ;  "  I  love 
that  garden  far  better  than  you  do  —  I  live  in  it 
—  live  for  it  —  you  hardly  look  at  it ;"  and  over- 
whelmed  with  emotion,  Allan  burst  into  tears. 
Laura  looked  distressed,  and  tried  to  calm  him  ; 
but,  as  he  grew  more  and  more  agitated,  she 
withdrew  till  he  should  have  got  over  what  she 
termed  a  nervous  attack. 

The  day  before  the  family  left  the  Hall,  Laura 
carried  to  Allan's  cottage  a  handsome  edition  of 
the  Bible,  which  she  put  into  his  own  hands  ;  and 
again  desiring  him  to  take  care  of  his  health,  she 
left  him  with  a  light  step,  and  a  gay  heart.  She 
was  going  the  next  day,  and  should  return  to 
Camelford  Hall  a  bride.  The  world  was  bright 
before  her — an  horizon  without  a  cloud  ;  and 
little  she  thought  that  the  heart  of  the  poor  gar- 
dener  boy  was  breaking  for  her. 

Two  months  passed  away,  before  preparations 


154     *  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

were  again  made  to  receive  the  family  at  Camel- 
ford  Hall ;  and  in  that  time  poor  Mrs.  Gray  had 
sorrow  upon  sorrow  to  contend  with.  Her  hus- 
band took  cold  one  damp  evening  while  working 
at  the  Hall,  and  died  after  a  short  illness.  Allan's 
dejection  grew  worse  and  worse  ;  and  at  last  he 
was  altogether  confined  to  his  room ;  yet  he 
looked  forward  with  intense  anxiety  to  Laura's 
return.  He  was  aware  that  she  would  only  re- 
turn as  Mrs.  Mannering,  but  he  should  see  her 
once  before  he  died.  His  mother  began,  at  last, 
to  suspect  the  truth.  She  frequently  heard  him 
murmur,  in  his  troubled  sleep,  words  of  a  strange 
import.  One  night  she  heard  him  say  —  "  If  I 
could  only  see  the  light  of  those  eyes  again,  I 
would  die  in  peace."  Mary  groaned  deeply,  for 
now  she  felt  there  was  no  hope  ;  — "  And  it  is 
my  fault !"  thought  the  self-reproaching  mother  ; 
"  it  was  I  who  taught  him  to  admire  the  beautiful 
and  refined,  while  our  lowly  station  confined  us 
to  the  ignorant  and  vulgar.  My  boy  !  my  boy  ! 
it  is  I  who  have  destroyed  you." 

It  was  thus  the  poor  mother  was  musing  in  bit- 
terness of  spirit,  while  standing  one  morning  at 
the  door  which  looked  towards  the  road  —  when 
suddenly  a  train  of  carriages  announced  the  am- 


ALLAN   GRAY.  155 

val  of  the  bridal  party.  Mary  felt  as  if  they  were 
trampling  on  her  heart.  Hastily  closing  the  door, 
she  returned  to  her  seat  by  Allan's  bedside.  He 
lifted  his  head,  and  looking  anxiously  at  her,  said 
— "  Mother,  promise  to  tell  me  as  soon  as  she 
arrives." 

"Who,  my  son?" 

"  Alas  !  I  do  not  know — yet  why  should  I  con- 
ceal it  ?  I  am  dying — I  cannot  offend  her  —  even 
she  would  forgive  me.  Tell  me  when  she  comes 
— I  cannot  utter  her  name  aloud." 

"  My  child,  have  you  so  far  forgotten  your  hum- 
ble station,  as  to  lift  your  eyes  to  one  so  far  above 
you  as  Miss  Camelford  ?" 

"  Oh  !  mother  do  not  blame  me.  I  dared  hope 
for  nothing  —  I  knew  my  love  was  madness  — 
'twas  delirium ;  but  who  could  look  on  her  and 
not  worship  her  with  a  forbidden  idolatry.  If  I 
have  sinned,  I  have  suffered,  mother,"  continued 
he,  drawing  from  under  his  pillow  the  Bible  that 
Laura  had  given  him,  "take  away  this — I  have 
never  read  this  book,  for  her  image  always  stood 
before  me.  When  I  read  yours,  I  could  banish 
it — but  bury  that  with  me — no,  do  not ;  in  the 
grave  this  '  tyranny  will  be  overpast.'  " 

Late  in  the  evening,  a  neighbour  came  in  to 

M2 


156  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

offer  to  assist  Mrs.  Gray  in  nursing  her  son. 
Long  after  her  offer  had  been  declined,  she  lin- 
gered to  gossip  in  a  loud  whisper :  "  I  say,  Mrs. 
Gray,  you  had  better  go  to  church  on  Sunday,  to 
take  a  look  at  the  bride."  Allan  raised  his  head. 
"  I  saw  her  this  morning,  and  though  Miss  Laura 
was  always  a  beauty,  she  looks  like  an  angel 
now — 'twould  do  your  eyes  good  to  gaze  on 
her." 

Mrs.  Gray  got  rid  of  her  visiter  as  soon  as  she 
could,  and  turned,  with  a  trembling  heart,  to- 
wards Allan.  "  Nay,  do  not  be  uneasy ;  the 
news  has  not  pained  me  much.  As  I  draw  nearer 
the  invisible  world,  I  feel  that  the  things  of  this 
are  losing  their  hold  on  me.  Now,  dear  mother, 
do  not  let  me  speak  of  her  again."  Allan  tried 
to  keep  his  resolution,  but  every  now  and  then 
the  name  of  Laura  half  escaped  him.  He  died 
the  next  day,  and  the  widowed  parent  felt  all  the 
anguish  of  that  grief,  which  will  not  be  comforted 
till  the  day  when  all  tears  shall  be  wiped  away. 

On  the  following  Sunday,  Laura  walked 
through  the  Church-yard  a  lovely  bride,  by  her 
mother's  side.  Suddenly  she  stopped,  exclaim- 
ing,— "  Oh  !  mamma,  there  is  a  new  made  grave, 
and  persons  just  leaving  it — whose  can  it  be  ?" 


ALLAN    GRAY.  157 

"  It  is  poor  Allan  Gray's,"  said  her  mother ;  he 
has  left  a  mother  indeed  disconsolate." 

In  the  plenitude  of  happiness,  we  expect  every 
object  around  us  to  respond  to  the  felicity  of  our 
own  hearts,  and  the  sight  of  Allan's  untimely 
grave  struck  a  chill  to  Laura's  heart.  She  little 
dreamed  that  it  was  she  who,  in  her  beauty  and 
brightness,  had  crossed  his  path,  and  robbed  him 
of  peace  and  life  ;  but  the  lustre  of  her  dark  eyes 
was  quenched  in  tears,  when  she  recollected  his 
youth,  his  modest,  gentle  conduct,  and  the  strong 
emotion  he  had  betrayed  the  last  evening  she  saw 
him. 

It  was  from  the  lonely  mother  that  I  learned 
the  particulars  of  Allan's  fate,  and  from  some 
fragments  of  his  journal,  which  she  read  to  me, 
that  I  have  traced  the  progress  of  that  disastrous 
passion,  which,  in  a  mind  of  sensibility,  nursed  in 
silence  and  solitude,  has  power  to  deprive  its  vic- 
tims of  energy  and  happiness,  and  even  of  life 
itself. 


LINES 


ADDRESSED  TO  A  DAUGHTER    OF    NEW   ENGLAND  ON  THE  RECEIPT 
OF  A  PUMPKIN  PIE  ON  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 


BY  THE  EDITOR. 

Thanks,  lady,  thanks,  thy  hand  well  skilled 

To  touch  with  fairy  fingers 
The  harpsichord  with  music  filled, 

As  o'er  it  beauty  lingers  ; 

Could  it  descend  where  plate  and  platter 

In  goodly  order  stand, 
And  form  for  me  this  pretty  batter, 

This  gift  from  Yankee  land  ? 

Oh,  were  I  blest  with  wit  and  taste 

Well  seasoned  as  thy  pie, 
I  would  in  numbers  praise  thy  paste, 

Nor  make  a  tart  reply. 

Thou  modest  pumpkin  :  gentle  hands 

Did  pluck  thee  from  the  vine, 
And  made  thee  pride  of  Eastern  lands 

Whene'er  their  children  dine. 


LINES.  159 


And  though  thou  wert  of  modest  birth, 

Nay,  grovelled  in  the  dirt, 
Yet  all  New  England  feels  thy  worth, 

And  knows  thy  rich  desert. 

And  Pilgrim  daughters  on  this  isle ' 
Where  squashes  most  abound, 

Will  greet  thy  presence  with  a  smile 
When  Thanksgiving  rolls  round. 

Then,  lady,  will  my  prayers  ascend 

For  richest  gifts  for  thee, 
And  Heaven  will  bless  the  gentle  friend 

Who  shares  her  crust  with  me. 

And  though  I  fear  my  own  desert 

Will  ne'er  rewarded  be, 
My  flattered  fancy  must  revert 

To  one  sweet  puff  from  thee. 

And  should  I  run  the  race  of  fame, 

I'll  feel  with  joy  elate 
That  no  dishonour  clouds  his  name 

Who's  won  a  lady's  plate. 
Brooklyn,  November,  1840. 


A    PORTRAIT. 


BY  AMANDA  K.  CLARK. 

I  KNOW  a  youthful  maiden,  so  fair  she  well  might  prove 
A  sylph  to  haunt  a  poet's  dreams — the  idol  of  his  love  ; 
A  creature  all  too  beautiful  to  dwell  with  care-worn  things, 
A  wandering  spirit  from  the  skies,  with  pinioned  earth-bound 
wings. 

She  hath  a  broad  and  open  brow,  most  exquisitely  fair, 
And  o'er  it  strays  in  golden  curls  her  shining  auburn  hair; 
And  then  her  eye,  her  radiant  eye,  so  soft  toward  heaven  is 

cast, 
That  the  brightness  of  its  azure  hue  into  those  orbs  hath 

passed. 

Hers  are  not  brightly-flashing  eyes,  but  seem  a  quiet  well, 
Where  holy  Truth  and  Grace  serene,  those  loving  sisters, 

dwell ; 
And  from  their  depths  a  constant  light,  a  gentle  radiance 

gleams — 
In  her  pure  spirit  may  be  found  the  fountain  of  its  beams. 


A   PORTRAIT.  161 

There  plays  a  smile  about  her  lip,  a  sweet  seraphic  smile. 
The  signet  of  a  youthful  heart,  untouched  by  grief  or  guile  ; 
And  when  she  speaks,  you  bend  your  ear  to  listen  to  a  voice 
Whose  slightest  tones  have  ever  said  unto  the  heart  "rejoice." 

There's  music  in  its  cadences,  but  chiefly  when  she  sings, 
When  forth  her  heart's  wild  melody  in  bird-like  carols  rings. 
You  wonder  where  she  caught  the  strain,  so  strangely  sweet 

it  seem?, 
And  think  some  angel  voices  must  have  whispered  it  in 

dreams. 

And  oh,  within  this  casket  fair,  there  is  a  pearl  of  worth, 
Like  the  dew-drop  in  the  lily  bell,  as  free  from  taint  of  earth  ; 
There  is  a  SOUL,  whose  rays  shine  through,  and  gild  her 

features  fair, 
With  a  portion  of  that  blessed  light  celestial  beings  wear. 

A   mind  she   hath   of  wondrous   mould,   most   delicately 

wrought, 
Whose  strings  were  never  swept  by  aught  but  high  and  holy 

thought ; 
A  mind  whose  pleasant  fancies  pass  like  "  shadows  over 

streams," 
A  soul  forever  tenanted  by  rainbow-coloured  dreams. 

No  darkening  shadows  pass  athwart  her  spirit's  peaceful 

sky, 
That  spirit  whose  serenity  is  mirrored  in  her  eye ; 


162  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

Where'er  her  gentle  presence  is,  is  cast  a  magic  spell, 
And  you  wish  beneath  its  thraldom  you  evermore  might 
dwell. 


No  sorrow  hath  she  of  her  own,  to  shade  her  quiet  mirth, 
But  she  glideth  like  a  sunbeam  beside  the  lowliest  hearth ; 
And  her  blessed  counsel  strengthens  them  to  suffer  and 

endure ; 
Oh  the  dearest  of  all  praise  is  hers,  the  blessing  of  the  poor. 

They  say  she  is  an  angel  sent  in  incomplete  disguise, 
For  a  more  than  earthly  lustre  is  shining  from  her  eyes ; 
But  it  matters  not  to  her  what  state  of  being  may  be  given, 
For  a  soul  like  hers  could  well  afford  to  barter  earth  for 
heaven. 


TAMINA. 

[FROM  THE  GERMAN.] 

"  THE  last  time  I  looked  on  the  full  moon,"  be- 
gan Colestin,  raising  his  eyes  to  the  luminary 
now  rolling  in  full-orbed  beauty  above  us  —  "it 
was  through  the  grated  window  of  an  Italian  mo- 
nastery, where  I  was  seated  with  an  old  monk, 
who  was  instructing  me  in  some  of  the  mysteries 
of  nature.  Our  conversation  turned  on  the  star 
of  night ;  and  he  told  me  many  wonderful  things 
of  it,  of  which  thousands  do  not  even  dream  ;  he 
recalled  to  my  memory  a  story  which  I  had  heard 
some  time  before  ;  I  always  fancied  it  very  much, 
and  will  relate  it  to  you. 

"  On  the  summit  of  one  of  the  highest  moun- 
tains of  the  moon,  stood  one  of  its  inhabitants,  just 
as  the  earth  with  its  dimmer  light  was  ascending 
the  heavens.  The  spirit,  whose  form  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  to  you,  felt  an  ardent  longing 
to  visit  the  sister  star.  He  threw  himself  at  the 
feet  of  a  being  more  powerful  than  himself,  who 


164  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

stood  at  his  side,  and  implored  permission  to  wan- 
der  awhile  in  the  unknown  world.  It  was  grant- 
ed to  him,  yet  not  without  a  solemn  warning. 
Whether,  as  with  us,  words  are  made  use  of  in 
the  moon  to  express  sentiments,  or  whether  some 
other  means  of  conveying  ideas  is  there  employed, 
I  may  not  tell  you  ;  it  is  enough  for  you  that  what 
fell  upon  the  ear  of  the  spirit,  might,  in  our  lan- 
guage, be  thus  expressed : 

"  '  You  desire  to  pass  the  bounds  which  sepa- 
rate us  from  that  far  distant  world  —  be  it  so ! 
Go,  assume  the  form  of  an  inhabitant  of  the 
earth ;  breathe  the  dense  atmosphere  which  sur- 
rounds it ;  measure  its  hills  with  our  giant  cliffs ; 
mirror  thyself  in  its  waters,  an  element  of  which 
thou  knowest  nothing  ;  mingle  in  its  busy  scenes, 
and  share  in  its  pleasures.  Before  thy  home  has 
three  times  described  its  circle  around  thee,  pain- 
fully wilt  thou  feel  that  thou  art  not  in  thy  native 
element :  an  ardent  longing  for  the  land  of  thy 
birth  will  seize  upon  thee,  and  eagerly  wilt  thou 
strive  to  return  to  it.  However  alluring  another 
star  may  seem  to  us,  yet  can  we  only  be  happy 
there  where  Providence  has  placed  us.' 

"  The  spirit  immediately  descended  to  the  earth, 
and  found  himself  clothed  in  a  human  form,  on  a 


TAMINA.  165 

mountain  peak,  from  which  he  looked  far  down 
on  the  country  below ;  here  all  was  new  to  his 
eyes.  The  atmosphere  which  surrounded  him 
was  to  him  what  water  would  be  to  us,  the  bodily 
frame  \vhich  he  wore  alone  enabled  him  to 
breathe  in  it.  Wondering,  he  beheld  trees  and 
plants,  birds  and  reptiles,  the  terrific  wild  beasts 
and  the  useful  domestic  animals ;  still  more  was 
he  astonished  at  the  lordly  human  form  which 
seemed  to  tell  him  of  a  kindred  spirit.  He  saw 
his  own  image  reflected  in  the  water,  and  did  not 
know  it,  —  and  gazed  with  admiration  on  the 
flowing  silver,  to  which  there  is  nothing  similar  in 
his  world  above. 

"  He  commenced  his  wanderings, — he  entered 
into  the  abodes  of  men  ;  took  part  in  their  occu- 
pations, and  endeavoured  to  participate  in  their 
pleasures,  but  could  not;  —  an  invisible  barrier 
appeared  ever  to  separate  him  from  those  whom 
he  approached ;  a  stranger  he  remained  to  them 
—  strangers  were  they  to  him.  Their  tears  and 
their  smiles,  their  grief  and  their  joy,  touched  no 
responsive  chord  in  his  heart ;  and  when  they 
would  embrace  him,  their  arms  encircled  only  the 
child  of  the  earth,  not  the  wanderer  from  another 
sphere,  whose  form  was  but  a  borrowed  robe  ! 


166  THEWINTERGREEN. 

"  Alone,  amid  rocky  precipices,  he  was  pursu- 
ing his  toilsome  way,  thinking  upon  the  warning 
of  his  wiser  friend  who  had  granted  his  desire  ; 
when,  behold,  his  home  floated  above  him  with 
its  soft  gentle  light ;  he  would  have  known  it  from 
the  quickened  pulses  of  his  heart,  even  had  not  its 
silver  beams,  so  different  from  the  ruddy  glare  of 
the  earth,  fallen  upon  his  sight.  Low  voices 
seemed  to  murmur  around  the  solitary  being  and 
lull  him  to  repose  ;  his  brilliant  eyes  closed  in  slum- 
ber beneath  the  protection  of  the  friendly  light. 

"Look,  where  the  sea  there  spreads  itself  glit- 
tering before  us  ;  at  the  dark  cliffs  rising  majesti- 
cally into  the  clear  air,  their  lofty  summits  glitter- 
ing in  the  moonlight; — what  a  solemn  stillness 
seems  to  pervade  all  nature  ;  it  was  on  such  a 
night  that  the  youth  fell  asleep  at  the  foot  of  you 
towering  mountain.  No  human  being  then  in- 
habited the  wilderness  ;  the  chamois  and  the  eagle 
were  lords  of  these  solitary  dominions ;  and  the 
streams  that  sang  the  wanderer's  lullaby,  gazed 
with  astonishment  on  the  unusual  apparition. 
Their  song  became  louder ;  swiftly  they  pressed 
around  him,  and  eagerly  summoned  their  sisters 
to  behold  him  with  them  :  '  Come  robed  in  your 
waves  of  silver  bright,  from  the  deep  sea,  sisters, 


TAMTNA.  167 

to  the  clear  moonlight ;  the  reed-crown  wind  in 
your  locks  of  green,  and  behold  what  no  water- 
sprite  has  e'er  seen.' 

"  The  sea  heaved,  the  waves  rose  and  fell,  and 
bore  the  slight  forms  of  the  water-spirits  to  the 
land.  Tall  slender  beings,  with  pale  lovely  coun- 
tenances and  long  flowing  hair.  Their  smaller 
companions  danced  gaily  up  to  them,  and  bab- 
bling, led  them  to  the  spot  where  the  inhabitant 
of  the  moon  slumbered.  The  maidens  gazed  at 
him  with  wonder ;  he  was  fair  as  painters  repre- 
sent angels  to  us  ;  fancy  him  so,  and  spare  me  the 
description. 

"  There  was  one  among  the  nymphs  of  the  sea, 
who  bore  your  name,  charming  Tamina.  She 
who  was  regarded  by  the  others  as  their  queen, 
stood  silent  near  the  stranger,  whilst  the  rest,  es- 
pecially the  noisy  brooks,  prattled  incessantly. 
Slowly  she  let  fall  on  his  head  a  wreath  of  white 
water  lilies,  whose  delicate  perfume  brings  plea- 
sant dreams,  and  rejoiced  when  she  saw  a  smile 
spread  itself  over  his  countenance.  Quite  lost  in 
the  contemplation  of  him ;  as  her  cold  heart  gra- 
dually warmed,  she  felt  as  does  the  frozen  stream 
when  the  sunbeams  kiss  it  and  impart  to  it  a  por- 
tion of  their  heat. 

N2 


168  THEWINTERGREEN. 

"  The  rivulets  now  prepared  to  depart,  bidding 
each  other  farewell.  *  Sisters,  will  you  not  remain 
longer  ?' 

" t  No,  we  haste  away  to  the  eagle's  seat,  our 
place  is  there  in  the  sultry  heat,  from  the  highest 
peak  ourselves  we  throw,  to  cool  the  grass  in  the 
land  below.' 

"  '  The  meadows  are  calling,  I  hear  their  warn- 
ing, for  I,'  said  a  nymph,  'am  the  dew  of  the 
morning.' 

"  *  And  I,'  said  a  brook,  '  on  the  mountain's 
height,  each  morn  to  the  sun  hold  a  mirror  bright ; 
if  his  glittering  mirror  here  idling  stays,  how  can 
Phoebus  arrange  his  crown  of  rays?' 

" '  I,'  murmured  another,  '  with  my  fall  awake, 
and  bid  Echo  her  obstinate  silence  break  ;  she 
would  slumber  all  day  in  her  rocky  caves,  if  she 
heard  not  the  rushing  sound  of  my  waves.' 

"  So  saying,  they  all  separated  ;  their  forms 
appeared  to  vanish  into  the  mist,  and  the  sound  of 
their  voices  became  fainter.  The  sleeper  moved. 
One  of  the  nymphs  proclaimed  that  it  was  time  to 
return  to  the  sea. 

"  '  Away,  ye  daughters  of  ocean  foam,  the  dawn 
comes  on,  swift  wears  the  night ;  now  quickly 
speed  to  your  watery  home,  and  hide  yourselves 


TAMINA.  169 

ere  the  morning's  light.  For  we  have  no  power 
but  'neath  the  waves  ;  far  off  in  the  deep  our  race 
had  birth  ;  we  rule  at  will  in  our  coral  caves,  but 
here,  might  be  scorned  by  a  child  of  earth.  To 
us  in  the  realm  of  air  there's  death,  our  forms  dis- 
solve in  the  morning's  breath.  In  the  sea  now 
the  moon  her  broad  disk  laves — then  away, 
away  to  your  ocean  caves  !' 

"  The  sprites  obeyed  the  command ;  they  has- 
tened to  the  sea  and  disappeared  beneath  the 
waves.  Tamina  alone  raised  her  crowned  head 
above  the  water,  and  began  a  low  song,  soft  and 
mournful  as  the  whispering  of  the  wind  among 
the  tall  firs.  The  youth  awoke  with  a  confused 
remembrance  of  delightful  dreams.  The  crown 
which  he  had  received  from  the  water-nymph  had 
filled  his  heart  with  an  ardent  love,  but  the  ob- 
ject of  it  had  vanished  with  his  dream,  and  could 
not  be  recalled  to  his  waking  senses.  A  melting 
sound  was  yet  ringing  in  his  ear  like  a  call  from 
his  distant  home ;  he  followed  it,  and  it  led  him  to 
the  shore  of  the  sea. 

" '  What  is  that  ?'  cried  he  with  rapture,  as  he 
beheld  at  his  feet  the  moon  floating  in  the  wavy 
mirror — 4art  thou  so  near  to  me  beloved  home? 
and  are  my  wanderings  in  this  strange  world  at 


170  T  H  E    W  I  ]\7  T  E  R  G  R  E  E  N. 

an  end  ?  My  longing  has  brought  back  to  me 
my  beloved  star,  which  I  never  should  have  left ; 
take  me  again  ;  I  return  wiser.  Providence  as- 
signs to  every  being  his  proper  sphere ;  all  the 
allurements  of  strange  worlds  are  too  weak  to 
compensate  the  exile  for  banishment  from  his 
father  land.' 

"  The  listening  nymphs  rose  from  the  water 
when  they  heard  the  step  of  the  wanderer  ;  they 
saw  him  spread  out  his  arms  and  plunge  into  the 
sea ;  they  saw  their  servants,  the  waves,  seize 
upon  him,  and  hastened  to  free  him  from  their 
power.  Gently  they  carried  him  down  through 
crystal  palaces,  where,  resting  on  beautiful  creep- 
ing plants,  thousands  of  little  water  spirits  waited 
to  receive  their  commands.  They  were  ordered 
instantly  to  form  a  grotto,  where  the  stranger 
might  exist  as  in  the  upper  air.  'Hasten  !'  they 
said ;  '  let  the  walls  be  of  shells,  and  pearl,  and 
coral ;  and  the  floor  of  gold  sand  ;  gather  the  rays 
of  light  from  the  waters  above,  and  prison  them 
within  it ;  spread  yourselves  then  before  the  door 
like  a  veil,  and  guard  the  entrance  against  all 
prying  sprites.' 

"  When  the  grotto  was  completed,  the  youth 
awoke  from  his  lethargy,  and  beheld  at  his  side 


TAMINA.  17J 

a  being  whose  ethereal  beauty  quite  drove  from 
his  memory  all  others. 

"  Tamina  now  exerted  her  utmost  power  to  fix 
the  wanderer  securely  in  the  snare  she  had  woven 
around  him ;  deserting,  altogether  her  sisters, 
she  never  left  him ;  her  sweet  song  charmed  his 
ear ;  her  gentle  fingers  wove  for  him  garlands  of 
fragrant  flowers ;  she  taught  him  the  secrets  of 
the  world  beneath  the  waters.  Passion  had 
warmed  her  icy  heart ;  -she  loved  him  as  might  a 
mortal  maiden,  fondly  and  truly  ;  and  only  prized 
her  power  and  beauty  for  his  sake.  The  youth, 
intoxicated  by  love  and  her  enchantments,  thought 
no  longer  of  his  home,  the  grotto  was  his  world, 
her  blue  eyes  the  only  star  he  cared  to  look  upon. 

"  So  passed  weeks  away ;  the  moon  had  once 
described  its  circle,  and  again  silvered  the  smooth 
waves  over  the  abode  of  love.  •  Tamina  was  at 
the  feet  of  her  beloved,  her  long  green  locks  float- 
ed on  the  golden  floor,  when  there  was  a  knock- 
ing heard  without,  and  two  of  her  attendants, 
small  bubbling  springs,  entered,  and  thus  spoke 
—  'My  sovereign  queen,  the  water-fall, thine  an- 
cient liegeman  and  vassal,  last  night  with  more 
than  wonted  roar,  a  fragment  from  the  mountain 
tore,  and  in  the  gap  his  power  had  made,  to  carry 


172  THE    WINTERCREEX. 

off  a  brook  essayed ;  united  now  they  come  be- 
fore  thee,  humbly  for  pardon  to  implore  thee.  A 
modest  spring,  too,  makes  request,  that  thou 
wouldst  issue  thy  behest,  that  he  with  sulphur  and 
iron  imbued,  with  power  to  heal  human  ill  be  in- 
dued. You  may  float  above  for  the  sea  is  light, 
like  diamonds  it  gleams  in  the  moonshine  bright ; 
and  in  frolic  mood,  'neath  the  silver  ray,  gaily  the 
tiny  waves  dance  and  play.' 

" '  Take  me  with  thee,  Tamina,'  entreated  the 
youth,  as  she  slowly  arose.  Mournfully  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  his,  for  a  sad  foreboding  seized  upon 
her ;  yet  she  could  not  refuse  any  of  his  wishes, 
and  the  attendant  spirits  were  commanded  to  bear 
him  where  he  desired.  Hardly  had  he  lost  sight 
of  the  nymph  and  gained  the  upper  surface  of  the 
water,  when  the  spell  that  had  so  long  bound  him 
was  broken.  In  a  moment  he  appeared  to  know 
himself  again  ;  the  love  for  the  being  whose  na- 
ture was  foreign  to  his  own,  seemed  to  him  like  a 
wild  dream.  Over  him  floated  the  crystal  mirror 
of  the  seas ;  with  beams  of  love  the  moon  again 
shone  on  him,  and  his  longing  returned  anew  for 
his  native  star.  '  Raise  me  still  higher,'  he  com- 
manded the  spirits,  and  murmuring  they  obeyed 
him.  He  breathed  the  air ;  he  reached  the  shore, 


TAMINA.  J73 

and  in  a  moment  stood  on  the  firm  ground.  The 
moon  went  down  —  the  sun  rose  —  he  strayed 
about  among  rocks  and  precipices  ;  he  wandered 
the  whole  day  long,  and  endeavoured  in  vain  to 
escape  from  a  persecution  which  everywhere 
checked  his  steps.  Wherever  he  went,  which 
ever  way  he  moved,  there  burst  forth  a  bubbling 
spring,  and  its  gurgling  sound  seemed  ever  to  say 
to  him,  in  Tamina's  imploring  voice  — '  return  !' 
He  hastened  his  steps  and  plunged  into  the  forest, 
but  still  that  trembling  tone  sounded  in  his  ear  — 
*  return!7  % 

"  As  the  sun's  last  ray  disappeared  behind  the 
mountains,  the  water-spirits  gained  their  misty 
forms,  and  the  rising  moon  showed  him  Tamina's 
pale  countenance.  'Return  !'  she  whispered,  and 
the  youth  turned  once  more  to  gaze  on  her  before 
he  departed  for  ever.  '  Cease  to  persecute  me, 
strange  maiden,'  said  he  ;  '  only  a  sweet  delusion 
kept  me  in  thy  power  ;  I  cannot  live  for  thee,  I 
belong  not  to  this  earth, — there,  in  that  brilliant 
globe,  whose  light  now  shines  upon  us,  is  my 
home  —  to  it  I  return.  I  do  not  deceive  myself 
by  false  hopes ;  from  yon  mountain's  height  I 
shall  be  taken  up  to  my  father  land,  and  hence- 
forth my  wanderings  will  be  but  a  dream  !'  He 


174  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

turned  and  ascended — rather  floating  than  walk- 
ing—  that  glacier  from  which  you  now  see  the 
Tamina  flow.  The  nymph  followed  him  closely, 
but  in  vain ;  and,  unable  to  return  to  her  king, 
dom  that  she  had 'left,  despairingly  she  flung  her- 
self from  the  mountain;  —  hating  the  light  of  the 
sun  she  sought  the  wildest  paths,  and  rushed  into 
the  deepest  chasms.  Between  high  precipitous 
rocks,  far  below  mortal  sight,  she  flowed  on ;  and 
the  shuddering,  which  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  in 
those  deep  shades  and  in  that  benumbing  air, 
seizes  upon  the  traveller,  is  a  spell  which  the  sor- 
row of  the  nymph  has  left  there.  Yet  soon  her 
longing  to  behold  the  abode  of  her  beloved  drew 
her  into  the  light,'  and  she  flowed  as  tributary  to 
a  more  powerful  stream,  to  the  sea.  Here,  in 
serene  nights,  she  looks  up  to  the  moon,  and  en- 
deavours again  to  draw  him  towards  her,  but  can 
never  allure  him  from  his  home  above. 

"It  is  her  love  which  raises  the  water  beneath 
the  moon's  beams ;  when  she  strives  with  eager 
desire  to  reach  her  beloved,  and  then  despairingly 
draws  back  again,  men  call  it  ebb  and  flood ;  and 
Tamina's  never-ceasing  tears  are  the  pearls 
which  mortals  gather  from  the  depths  of  the 
ocean." 


ONLY  ONE   NIGHT  AT  SEA. 

BY   ROBERT   M.   CHARLTON. 

"  ONLY  one  night  at  sea," — 

'Twas  thus  the  promise  ran, 
By  frail  presumptuous  mortal  given, 

To  vain,  confiding  man, — 
"  Only  one  night  at  sea, 

And  land  shall  bless  thy  sight, 
When  morning's  rays  dispel 

The  shadows  of  that  night." 

The  pledge  has  been  received, 

The  vessel  leaves  the  shore, 
Bearing  the  beautiful  and  brave, 

Who  ne'er  shall  greet  us  more  ; 
And  every  heart  beats  high, 

As  bounding  o'er  the  wave, 
The  gallant  bark  moves  on 

To  bear  them  to  their  grave. 

The  merry  beams  of  day 

Before  the  darkness  flee, 
And  gloomy  night  comes  slowly  on, 

That  "only  night  at  sea:" 


176  THE  W1NTERGREEN. 

The  watch  upon  the  deck, 

Their  weary  vigils  keep, 
And  countless  stars  look  down 

In  beauty  o'er  the  deep. 

Within  that  stately  boat 

The  prattler's  voice  is  still, 
And  beauty's  lovely  form  is  there, 

Unheeding  of  the  ill ; 
And  manhood's  vigorous  mind 

Is  wrapped  in  deep  repose, 
And  sorrow's  victim  lies 

Forgetful  of  his  woes. 

But  hark !  that  fearful  sound, 

That  wild,  appalling  cry, 
That  wakes  the  sleepers  from  their  dreams, 

And  rouses  them  —  to  die  : 
And  who  shall  tell  the  hopes 

That  rose,  so  soon  to  flee  ; 
The  good  resolves  destroyed 

By  that  "one  night  at  sea?" 

That  hour  hath  passed  away, 

The  morning's  beams  are  bright, 
As  if  they  met  no  record  there, 

Of  that  all-fearful  night ; 
But  many  souls  have  fled 

To  far  eternity, 
And  many  hearts  been  wrecked 

In  that  "  one  night  at  sea." 


ONLY   ONE  NIGHT   AT   SEA.  177 

Great  God !  whose  hand  hath  launched 

Our  boat  upon  life's  sea, 
And  given  us  a  pilot  there, 

A  spirit  bold  and  free, 
So  guide  us  with  thy  love, 

That  our  frail  bark  may  be, 
Mid  waves  of  doubt  and  fear,  f 

"  Only  one  night  at  sea." 


GROWING    OLD. 

(ADDRESSED  TO  A  DISTANT  FRIEND.) 

BY  MRS.  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

"  Out  upon  Time !  who  forever  will  leave 
But  enough  of  the  past  for  the  future  to  grieve 
O'er  that  which  hath  been  and  o'er  that  which  must  be." 

YOUR  melancholy  letter  of  self-condolence,  my 
dear  and  most  wayward  of  friends — your  elo- 
quent but  unreasonable  regrets  at  having  passed 
through  "  Life's  mid- way  turnstile,"  (to  use  your 
own  quaint  version  of  the  poet's  "  mezzo  del  cam- 
min  di  nostra  vita,")  have  awakened  in  me  a 
train  of  reflections  which,  for  your  punishment, 
rather  than  with  any  hope  of  your  edification,  I 
shall  offer  to  your  serious  consideration. 

There  are  few  things  so  little  understood,  and 
yet  so  indispensable  to  the  comfort  of  every  child 
of  earth,  as  the  art  of  growing  old.  If  I  were  a 


GROWING  OLD.  179 

man  (as,  thank  God,  I  am  not,  for  among  my  many 
blessings,  I  rank  first  that  of  being  a  woman,)  I 
would  make  it  the  subject  of  a  course  of  lectures  ; 
and  should  probably  then  share  the  fate  of  other 
preachers,  who,  while  elucidating  truth,  afford 
melancholy  evidence,  in  their  own  persons,  of  the 
difficulty  which  ever  attends  its  practical  applica- 
tion. The  reason  why  the  matter,  now  in  ques- 
tion, is  so  little  comprehended,  is  very  obvious. 
The  subject  is  distasteful,  and  each  one  feels  that 
there  is  yet  full  time  for  contemplating  it  afar  off. 
We  fancy  ourselves  still  wandering  on  the  con- 
fines of  youth,  or  at  least,  but  just  entering  the 
dusty  paths  of  middle  life  ;  when  suddenly  we  find 
ourselves  at  the  opening  of  a  yawning  ravine, 
down  which  we  are  irresistibly  hurried  by'  the 
pressure  of  the  crowd  behind  us ;  and  when  we 
reach  the  cold,  bleak,  barren  region  of  old  age 
which  lies  below,  we  feel  that  we  have  yielded 
with  an  ill-grace  to  the  necessity  which  drove  us 
from  the  busy  scenes  of  active  life. 

Age  is  certainly  an  evil,  —  necessary  to  our 
mortal  being,  doubtless, — but  only  less  terrible 
than  death ;  and  had  not  God  implanted  in  our 
bosoms  that  strong  love  of  life  which  makes  us 
cling  to  mere  existence,  the  king  of  terrors  would 

o2 


180  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

often  be  a  less  painful  visitant  than  the  greybeard 
time.  Who  ever  detected  the  first  furrow  on  his 
brow — the  first  grey  hair  amid  his  flowing  locks, 
without  a  pang  ?  And  yet,  methinks  it  were  pas- 
time to  grow  old,  if  age  were  only  an  external 
evil.  If  the  deepened  lines  of  the  face,  the  de- 
spoiled honours  of  the  brow,  the  faded  light  of  the 
eye,  were  the  only  changes  which  Time  brings, 
we  might  learn  to  look  on  him  with  indifference. 
But,  alas !  he  bears  away  other  treasures ;  he 
defaces  the  bright  beauty  of  the  casket  while  he 
steals  some  of  the  richest  gems  which  it  contains. 
We  lose  the  unselfish  enthusiasm  of  youth,  —  its 
generous  ardour,  —  its  sweet  confiding  trust ;  — 
we  learn  to  question  our  own  impulses,  and  the 
lesson  which  teaches  us  to  mistrust  our  own  na- 
ture, like  all  the  other  lessons  of  scepticism,  offers 
nothing  in  exchange  for  the  faith  it  would  dis- 
turb. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  says  the  warm-hearted  and 
joyous-tempered  Mde.  de  Sevigne,  "it  seems  to 
"  me  that  I  have  been  dragged  against  my  will, 
"  to  the  fatal  period  when  old  age  must  be  en- 
"  dured.  I  see  it,  I  have  come  to  it,  and  I  would 
"  fain  if  I  could  help  it  go  no  farther,  nor  advance 
"  another  step  in  the  road  of  infirmities,  of  pains, 


GROWING   OLD.  181 

"of  losses  of  memory,  of  disfigurements  ready  to 
"  do  me  outrage  ;  and  I  hear  a  voice  which  says 
" '  you  must  go  on  in  spite  of  yourself,  or  if  you 
"  will  not  go  on  you  must  die,'  and  this  is  another 
"  extremity  from  which  nature  revolts.  Such  is 
"  the  lot  of  all  who  advance  beyond  middle  life. 
"  What  is  the  resource  ?  To  reflect  on  the  will 
"  of  God,  and  the  universal  law  of  being,  and 
"so  restore  reason  to  her  dominion,  and  be 
"patient." 

They  who  would  grow  old  gracefully  must 
equally  avoid  too  much  haste,  and  too  much  delay 
in  their  progress.  They  must  neither  wait  to  be 
jostled  aside  by  younger  competitors  in  the  race, 
nor  must  they  fling  off  too  soon  the  rose-chains 
which  held  them  in  sweet  bondage  amid  the  bow- 
ers of  youthful  happiness.  Nothing  is  more  dis- 
gusting than  an  imbecile  aping  of  gaiety  and 
folly  in  old  age,  and  nothing  more  painful  than 
the  premature  selfishness  and  calculation  of  age 
in  the  glad  season  of  youth. 

If  I  were  called  to  give  one  short  and  compre- 
hensive rule  for  growing  old  properly,  I  would 
say  :  —  Cherish  that  health  which  is  the  next  best 
gift  to  that  of  youth,  —  let  the  mind  ripen  fully 
and  perfectly  in  the  light  of  knowledge,  —  and, 


182  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

above  all  things,  keep  the  heart  young  by  the  con- 
stant exercise  of  kindly  and  genial  sympathy. 

Even  while  I  write,  memory  presents  some 
lovely  pictures  of  this  '  youth  in  age'  which  is  ever 
so  desirable.  I  behold  a  mother,  faded  in  beauty, 
but  wearing  upon  her  face  that  sweetness  which 
emanates  from  the  inner  light  of  the  soul.  Her 
children  are  around  her,  and  with  the  recollec- 
tions of  her  own  glad  and  wayward  youth  still 
fresh  in  her  heart,  she  fully  and  entirely  sympa- 
thises with  all.  The  workings  of  incipient  vanity 
in  one  child, — the  gushing  forth  of  passionate 
feeling  in  another, — the  proud  and  fiery  temper 
of  a  third, — perhaps  the  timid,  facile  temper  of  a 
fourth,  or  the  generous,  impulsive  nature  of  a 
fifth  —  all  are  understood  —  all  are  appreciated 
— all  receive  the  indulgence  due  to  weakness, 
and  the  gentle  restraint  necessary  to  future  cor- 
rection of  error.  She  is  the  friend,  the  counsel- 
lor, the  confidant  of  her  children,  —  the  tender 
elder  sister  rather  than  the  rigid  parent,  —  guid- 
ing rather  than  controlling  them  —  sharing  their 
every  pleasure  —  bearing  their  every  sorrow,  and 
cherishing  a  youthfulness  of  heart  amid  the  young, 
which  adds  new  grace  to  the  matronly  dignity 
and  beauty  of  her  perfectly  consistent  character. 


GROWING   OLD.  183 

I  can  remember,  too,  an  honoured  and  venera- 
ble man,  who  in  the  decline  of  years,  amid  the 
seclusion  of  domestic  life,  still  preserves  the  fresh- 
ness of  those  fervent  feelings  which  won  for  him 
'the  happiness  which  he  now  enjoys.  In  the  youth 
of  his  children  he  reviews  his  own  early  life,  — in 
the  exercise  of  hospitality  he  keeps  alive  his  so- 
cial virtues  —  in  the  duties  of  benevolence  he  finds 
an  outlet  for  the  impulsive  generosity  of  his  na- 
ture —  in  the  daily  exertion  of  his  intellect  he 
finds  a  safeguard  against  the  corrosions  of  time, 
—  does  such  a  man  grow  old  because  his  eye  is 
dim,  his  brow  furrowed  by  the  ploughshare  of 
age,  and  his  frame  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of 
years  ? 

But  there  are  those  who  must  grow  old  without 
any  such  means  of  renewing  their  life.  There 
are  hearts  which  find  no  companionship  in  wed- 
ded life  —  hearts  which  have  felt  a  blight  worse 
than  the  frost  of  years  —  hearts  whose  glad  youth 
departed  ere  a  shadow  from  Time's  wing  had 
darkened  in  their  path.  Yet  even  for  them  there 
is  a  fountain  of  freshness  —  a  '  diamond  of  the  de- 
sert.' To  them  is  offered  the  pure  delights  of 
Friendship,  — that  sweetest  of  all  forms  of  earthly 
affection,  which  is  all  of  Love  but  its  selfishness, — 


184  THE  WINTERGREEN 

all  of  Passion  but  its  exacting  spirit — all  of  ten- 
derness but  its  weakness. 

I  know  not  what  may  be  the  nature  of  friend- 
ship in  the  heart  of  man,  but  in  the  breast  of 
woman  I  know  it  to  be  what  I  have  depicted  it. 
Love  lives  not  without  jealousy,  which  ever  stalks 
beside  it  like  its  shadow,  flinging  gloom  upon  its 
brightest  way.  But  Friendship  asks  nothing,  save 
to  be  allowed  to  serve  —  hopes  nothing,  save  to 
be  considered  of  some  import  to  the  happiness  of 
its  object  —  expects  nothing,  save  to  be  remem- 
bered with  tender  regret  when  death  shall  have 
stilled  the  beatings  of  the  warm  heart,  and  the 
pulses  of  the  ready  hand. 

If  I  were  a  man  and  knew  of  woman  what  my 
present  experience  has  taught  me,  (an  impossi- 
bility, by  the  way,)  I  should  prefer  the  deep,  fer- 
vent friendship  of  a  woman's  heart  to  all  the  de- 
ceitful promises  of  love.  After  all,  love  is  like 
grief — 'it  consumes  or  is  consumed;'  the  wild, 
fierce,  fiery  passion  which  makes  every  hour 
either  a  pang  or  an  ecstasy,  cannot  last ;  it  is 
weakened  by  its  own  excess,  and  must  either  sub- 
side into  a  tame  sentiment,  or  die  away  in  utter 
indifference,  if  it  be  not  merged  in  such  a  friend- 
ship. But  the  friendship  which  is  born  of  esteem 


GROWING   OLD.  185 

for  high  and  noble  qualities  —  which  sees  in  its 
object  something  to  be  admired,  respected,  looked 
Up  to  —  (I  speak  now  of  friendship  between  per- 
sons of  opposite  sex  ;  and  to  be  perfectly  happy  in 
•any  attachment  there  must  be  a  blending  of  reve- 
rence in  woman's  tenderness) — which  knows  no 
jealous  fears,  no  envious  heartburnings — which 
is  full  of  self-forgetting  affection,  and  yet  asks  no 
other  return  than  the  kindly  word  and  the  gentle 
tone  —  the  friendship  which  in  woman  is  ever 
mingled  with  that  innate  principle  of  loving,  so 
perfectly  a  part  and  parcel  of  her  very  nature  — 
such  is  the  true  sweetener  of  life,  such  the  only 
worthy  object  of  attainment,  such  the  only  lasting 
passion. 

A  woman  need  never  suffer  her  heart  to  grow 
old.  I  care  not  how  lonely  be  her  lot,  wherever 
she  can  find  a  home,  there  can  she  find  some  ob- 
ject of  affection.  There  is  always  some  brother 
or  sister  —  a  niece,  or,  it  may  be,  a  wayward  ne- 
phew, or,  at  least,  some  of  those  '  little  people,' 
whose  claims  upon  us  depend  not  on  ties  of  blood, 
to  occupy  her  interest.  If  ever  a  woman  finds 
herself  utterly  lonely  and  unloved,  depend  on  it, 
the  cause  lies,  not  in  her  unfortunate  destiny,  but 
in  herself.  Live  without  loving  !  why  the  thing 


186  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

is  impossible ;  methinks  if  I  were  the  sole  habi- 
tant of  a  desolate  island  in  mid  ocean  I  should 
find  something  over  which  to  pour  out  the  fulness 
of  a  yearning  heart.  "  Je  meurs  ouje  in  'attache" 
is  a  true  woman's  motto,  and  happy  is  she  whose 
heart,  while  it  clings  like  the  ivy,  finds  something 
better  than  ruin  and  decay  to  support  its  entwin- 
ing tendrils. 

A  wom£n,  I  repeat,  need  never  be  a  solitary 
being.  In  the  cheerful  stillness  of  her  own 
thoughts  she  can  be  ever  devising  some  good  for 
others ;  and  if  she  never  forgets  that  woman  is 
sent  upon  earth  to  minister  comfort  to  the  toil- 
worn  children  of  Adam  —  if  she  remembers  that 
God  has  given  her  a  nature  which  enables  her  to 
convert  the  curse  pronounced  upon  our  first  mo- 
ther into  a  boundless  blessing  —  if  she  never  for- 
gets that  they  who  "  stand  and  wait"  are  number- 
ed among  the  servants  of  the  Most  High,  no  less 
than  those  who  do  his  bidding  in  the  whirlwind 
and  the  storm  — -  she  will  not  repine  at  the  destiny 
which  gives  her  happiness  just  in  proportion  as 
she  lives  for  others  and  not  for  herself. 

But  with  men  the  case  is  somewhat  different. 
Few  conditions  can  be  more  melancholy  than  that 
of  a  lonely  man  who  has  outlived  all  early  asso- 


GROWING   OLD.  187 

ciations — who  has  grown  estranged  by  time  and 
circumstance  from  the  companions  of  his  youth  — 
who  enters  not  closely  into  the  interests  of  a  sin- 
gle one  of  God's  creatures,  and  who  is  keenly 
conscious  that  to  no  one  is  he  an  object  of  real  re- 
gard. Yet  why  should  these  things  be  so  ?  Why 
should  man  be  so  isolated  an  individual  merely 
because  he  has  no  conjugal  nor  filial  ties  ?  Are 
there  not  other  bonds  of  union,  which  if  less  close- 
ly woven,  are  still  worth  cherishing  ? 

It  was  but  yesternight  that  one,  whose  lan- 
guage is  ever  like  the  poetry  of  knightly  days, 
stirring  my  heart  at  one  time  like  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet,  calling  to  the  tourney,  and  anon,  melt- 
ing me  into  sweet  regretful  tears  of  tenderness  — 
it  was  but  yesternight  he  told  me  of  a  solitary 
man  who  in  his  loneliness  bethought  him  of  put- 
ting in  practice  the  chivalry,  which  is  still  extant 
in  the  world,  albeit  it  is  now  hidden  beneath  a 
velvet  vest  instead  of  a  mailed  cuirass.  This 
strange  being  became  the  friend,  the  guardian 
over  certain  gentle,  and  I  doubt  not,  lovely  maid- 
ens, at  their  first  entrance  into  life.  His  delight 
was  to  show  them  all  that  earth  held  of  good,  and 
to  protect  them  from  all  that  it  contained  of  evil, 
— to  watch  over  the  developing  affections  of  those 


188  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

young  hearts,  and  to  guard  them  from  the  noxious 
influence  of  passion.  A  beautiful  blending  of  the 
brother's  watchfulness,  the  father's  tenderness, 
and  the  lover's  jealous  affection,  filled  the  heart 
of  that  solitary  man.  One  after  another  the  ob- 
jects of  his  love  were  taken  from  him  by  happier 
and  more  fervent  admirers  ;  and  in  every  in- 
stance he  felt  for  a  time  the  keen  sharp  pang  of 
disappointed  or  rather  unsatisfied  love.  Yet  the 
pain  was  but  a  transient  sorrow,  for  a  conscious- 
ness of  self-sacrifice  —  a  pleasant  sense  of  heroic 
devotion,  which  could  silently  relinquish  its  own 
happiness  for  the  object  of  its  tenderness,  became 
his  solace.  Another  soon  was  found  to  take  the 
place  of  the  wedded  one,  and  the  same  round  of 
attentions,  and  watchfulness,  and  growing  regard 
was  again  travelled.  Thus  passed  the  life  of  this 
eccentric  but  noble -hearted  bachelor ;  and  who 
will  say  that  he  found  not  happiness  ?  It  is  true 
that  he  stored  up  for  himself  a  new  sorrow  with 
every  affection,  but  who  would  not  prefer  to  suffer 
the  pain  of  an  overcharged  heart,  rather  than  the 
aching  void  of  a  vacant  bosom  ?  The  old  man 
found  bliss  beyond  the  capacity  of  common  minds 
in  these  sweet  ties,  and  when  death  summoned 
him  to  his  reward  in  a  better  world,  he  was  wept 


GROWING   OLD.  189 

by    gentle    eyes    and    remembered    by    loving 
hearts. 

Tell  me  not,  dear  friend,  of  that  solitary  man 
who,  years  hence,  will  take  his  accustomed  walk 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street,  and  who  will 
pause,  leaning  on  his  cane  to  watch  the  gambols 
of  the  merry  boys,  perhaps  to  give  feeble  impetus 
to  their  bounding  ball  as  it  passes  him  on  its 
winged  way,  or  it  may  be  to  aid  the  timid  steps  of 
a  shrinking  girl  as  she  crosses  the  icy  pathway. 
Tell  me  not  of  that  man  dwelling  lonely  and  un- 
sought in  hte  secluded  chamber,  seeking  his  en- 
joyment only  in  remembrance  of  the  past,  and 
wasting  the  remnant  of  his  days,  like  his  own  no- 
ble hound,  in  sluggishness  and  sunshine.  Tell 
me  not  that  the  time  will  come  when  his  foot  will 
cease  to  descend  the  stair — when  his  face  will  be 
missed  from  the  accustomed  walk — when  the 
boys  will  wonder  why  they  hear  not  his  kindly 
greeting ;  and  finally,  when  the  hearse  and  its 
few  respectful  followers  will  be  seen  bearing  to 
its  last  resting-place  the  remains  of  him  who 
amid  the  crowded  city  still  dwelt  in  hermit  like 
solitude.  Tears,  such  as  I  have  seldom  shed, 
would  blind  me  could  I  believe  such  picture 
aught  than  the  image  of  a  mocking  fancy. 


190  THE   WINTERGREEJ\r. 

Rather  let  me  take  the  pencil  and  try  a  wo- 
man's power.  Let  me  imagine  myself  transport- 
ed, some  thirty  years  hence,  to  your  distant  city 
of  refuge — the  far  off  home  of  your  adoption. 
The  scene  is  one  of  quiet  enjoyment — a  pleasant 
fireside  —  a  cheerful  apartment — books,  pictures, 
deep,  kindly-looking  chairs  ;  all  the  comforts,  but 
none  of  the  mere  luxuries  of  life  are  there  ;  and 
two,  who  have  grown  old  together,  albeit  the 
years  of  one,  even  as  his  virtues  and  his  graces, 
outnumber  those  of  his  companion,  are  seated  in 
gentle  converse.  The  door  opens,  and  the  che- 
rished friend  of  earlier  days  enters.  He  is  a  soli- 
tary man  —  but  what  warm  and  gushing  affection 
are  poured  out  at  his  feet.  The  impassioned 
poet — the  daring  hunter — the  friend  of  the  red 
kings  of  the  soil — the  embodiment  of  all  that  we 
can  dream  of  chivalrous  and  noble — how  can  he 
be  called  solitary,  when  the  very  shadows  of  his 
brain  have  peopled  the  forest  and  the  prairie  with 
beauty  ?  His  place  is  ever  reserved  in  the  hearts 
as  at  the  fireside  of  those  who  love  him.  He  is 
as  one  of  that  quiet  household — free  to  go  and 
come  as  he  lists,  but  not  from  the  indifference  of 
habitual  intercourse  ;  no,  his  step  is  still  listened 
for — his  opinions  still  treasured  up — his  deep 


GROWING  OLD.  191 

• 

and  earnest  tones  still  caught  as  eagerly  as  in  the 
days  of  his  youth. 

Anon  enters  another,  in  the-  full  deep  light  of 
whose  lustrous  and  spiritual  eyes,  may  be  read 
the  refined  and  lofty  soul  of  him  whose  early  life 
was  like  an  acted  poem,  full  of  passionate  sweet- 
ness ;  and  whose  gentle  heart  never  knew  a  feel- 
ing which  was  not  as  abounding  in  human  sym- 
pathies as  in  elevated  purity. 

Two  more  are  added  to  the  little  circle.  The 
merry  voice,  the  agile  step  of  one  is  yet  un- 
changed, and  the  wit,  wont  '  to  set  the  table  in  a 
roar/  the  quips  and  cranks  of  overflowing  hu- 
mour, the  brilliant  scintillations  of  ready  repartee, 
and  the  genuine  kindness  and  warm-heartedness 
which  pervaded  and  shone  through  all  his  cha- 
racter, are  no  less  remarkable  than  when,  years 
before,  he  first  charmed  the  mirth-loving  fancy  of 
the  now  sobered  hostess.  But  of  his  companion 
how  shall  I  speak  ?  how  depict  the  softened,  chas- 
tened beauty  of  that  sweet  matronly  face  ?  The 
tresses,  once  hanging  in  rich  luxuriance  upon  the 
peach-like  bloom  of  the  rounded  cheek,  are  now 
put  back  under  a  simple  cap,  but  the  soft  dewy 
lip  is  still  as  bright  as  in  her  gentle  youth  ;  only 

p2 


192  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

the  expanded  proportions  of  that  womanly  form 
betray  the  lapse  of  time. 

Friend  of  my  soul,  what  sayest  thou  to  my  gos- 
siping ?  Why  may  we  not  have  such  a  tableau 
vivant,  if  the  stern  mower  whet  not  his  scythe 
among  us  ?  Why  may  not  age  find  us  with  busy 
minds  and  young  hearts  ?  Why  may  we  not  meet 
in  after  years,  even  as  now,  and  bid  defiance  to 
Time  when  he  attempts  to  penetrate  the  strong 
hold  of  our  affections  ]  Hast  thou  not  said  that 
poetry  is  the  true  fountain  of  rejuvenescence  ? 
Let  us  then  quaff  deeply  of  its  sweet  waters,  and 
while  their  subtle  influence  sends  new  life  through 
our  sluggish  veins,  we  will  forget  "  time's  takings," 
and  only  remember  that  the  sweetest  of  all  the 
treasures  which  he  leaves  is  the  Love  which  was 
born  for  immortality. 

Brooklyn,  L.  I. 


KJGTf 


MY    SISTERS. 


BY  AMELIA  B.  WELBY. 

LIKE  flowers  that  softly  bloom  together, 

Upon  one  fair  and  fragile  stem, 
Mingling  their  sweets  in  sunny  weather, 

Ere  strange  rude  hands  have  parted  them  : 
So  were  we  link'd  unto  each  other, 

Sweet  sisters  !  in  our  childish  hours, 
For  then  one  fond  and  gentle  mother 

To  us  was  like  the  stem  to  flowers, 
She  was  the  golden  thread  that  bound  us 

In  one  bright  chain  together  here, 
Till  Death  unloosed  the  cord  around  us, 

And  we  were  sever'd  far  and  near. 

The  flowret's  stem,  when  broke  or  shatter'd, 

Must  cast  its  blossoms  to  the  wind, 
Yet  round  the  buds,  though  widely  scatter'd, 

The  same  soft  perfume  still  we  find  ; 
And  thus,  although  the  tie  is  broken 

That  link'd  us  round  our  mother's  knee, 
The  memory  of  words  we've  spoken 

When  we  were  children  light  and  free, 


194  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

Will,  like  the  perfume  of  each  blossom, 
Live  in  our  hearts  where'er  we  roam, 

As  when  we  slept  on  one  fond  bosom, 
And  dwelt  within  one  happy  home. 

I  know  that  changes  have  come  o'er  us : 

Sweet  sisters  !  we  are  not  the  same, 
For  different  paths  now  lie  before  us, 

And  all  three  have  a  different  name ; 
And  yet,  if  Sorrow's  dimming  fingers 

Have  shadow'd  o'er  each  youthful  brow, 
So  much  of  light  around  them  lingers, 

I  cannot  trace  those  shadows  now. 
Ye  both  have  those  who  love  ye  only, 

Whose  dearest  hopes  are  round  ye  thrown- 
While,  like  a  stream  that  wanders  lonely, 

Am  I,  the  youngest,  wildest  one. 

My  heart  is  like  the  wind  that  beareth 

Sweet  scents  upon  its  unseen  wing — 
The  wind  !  that  for  no  creature  careth, 

Yet  stealeth  sweets  from  every  thing ; 
It  hath  rich  thoughts  forever  leaping 

Up,  like  the  waves  of  flashing  seas, 
That  with  their  music  still  are  keeping 

Soft  time  with  every  fitful  breeze  ; 
Each  leaf  that  in  the  bright  air  quivers, 

The  sounds  from  hidden  solitudes, 
And  the  deep  flow  of  far-off  rivers, 

And  the  loud  rush  of  many  floods : 


MY   SISTERS.  195 

All  these,  and  more,  stir  in  my  bosom 

Feelings  that  make  my  spirit  glad, 
Like  dew-drops  shaken  in  a  blossom, 

And  yet  there  is  a  something  sad 
Mix'd  with  those  thoughts,  like  clouds,  that  hover 

Above  us  in  the  quiet  air, 
Veiling  the  moon's  pale  beauty  over 

Like  a  dark  spirit  brooding  there. 

But,  sisters  !  those  wild  thoughts  were  never 

Yours,  for  ye  would  not  love  like  me 
To  gaze  upon  the  stars  forever, 

To  hear  the  wind's  wild  melody. 
Ye'd  rather  look  on  smiling  faces, 

And  linger  round  a  cheerful  hearth, 
Than  mark  the  stars'  bright  hiding-places 

As  they  peep  out  upon  the  earth. 
But,  sisters  !  as  the  stars  of  even 

Shrink  from  day's  golden  flashing  eye, 
And,  melting  in  the  depths  of  heaven, 

Veil  their  soft  beams  within  the  sky : 
So  will  we  pass,  the  joyous-hearted, 

The  fond,  the  young,  like  stars  that  wane, 
Till  every  link  of  earth  be  parted, 

To  form  in  heaven  one  mystic  chain. 


THE    MANAGING   MOTHER. 


I  take  my  daughters  to  each  Ball, 

I'm  known  to  every  one  ; 
And  hundreds  on  the  New  Year  call, 

And  so  each  year  they've  done. 

But  tho'  my  eldest  is  a  belle, 

Can  dance  and  waltz  with  grace, 

I  really,  tho'  I'm  loth  to  own, 
Think  it  a  hopeless  case. 

Sir  Harry,  when  she  first  came  out, 

Was  always  at  her  side, 
I  then  was  sure  'twould  come  about 

And  she  would  be  a  bride. 

A  bride,  what  happiness  to  hail 

An  elder  daughter  so — 
For  then  you  scarcely  ever  fail 

To  marry  all  you  know. 


WBodg*.  ' 


RBAHAffiDQffi 


THE    MANAGING   MOTHER.  197 

He  dined  with  us  quite  "  en  famille," 

He  seem'd  just  like  a  son  : 
I  told  him,  laughingly,  he'd  steal 

The  heart  of  every  one. 

And  Julien — then,  I  nodded  to — 

Turned  with  a  sigh  away, 
'Twas  all  in  vain,  it  would  not  do, 

The  fool  I  could  not  sway. 

And  then  Lord  W I  knew, 

He  was  a  monied  man, 
But  Julien  was  not,  a  son  gout, 

And  so  he  smiled  on  Fan, 

But  she,  (poor  child)  had  not  the  art 

To  feed  the  flame  she  lit : 
(Julia  had  played  a  better  part) 

So  nothing  came  of  it. 

My  girls  are  all  well  born  and  bred, 

Dress  well,  I  choose  their  clothes  ; 
But  oh  !  a  weary  life  I  lead, 

The  men  will  not  propose. 


THE  LAST  MAN. 

A  CHAPTER  IN  THE  STYLE  OF  THE  DAY. 
BY  C.  F.  HOFFMAN. 

"  CROWD  is  not  company,  and  faces  are  but  a 
gallery  of  pictures  where  there  is  no  love," 
quaintly  but  truly  saith  an  old  writer.  From  such 
a  gallery  I  have  stalked  out  this  instant,  reader, 
to  hold  a  moment's  sympathizing  talk  with  thee. 
You  have  heard  of  me,  doubtless,  at  Saratoga, 
Rockaway  or  Niagara,  or  perhaps  even  my  fame 
as  the  last  man  of  the  season  has  reached  you  at 
the  distant  White  Sulphur,  or  some  gay  spot  still 
more  remote,  where  you  bestow  your  favoured 
leisure  upon  some  lively  circle,  and  mete  out  a 
shred  of  compassion  to  the  unhappy  subjects  you 
have  left  behind  you,  prisoned  by  business  cares 
in  the  city.  I  am  the  last,  the  very  last  of  these 
unfortunates.  The  town,  indeed,  is  not  com- 
pletely deserted ;  for  I  behold  in  the  streets 


THE    LAST   MAN.  199 

crowds  of  those  eccentric  people,  who,  at  all  sea- 
sons,  prefer  the  bustle  and  excitement  of  city  life 
to  the  repose  of  rural  leisure.  I  am,  therefore, 
not  exactly  in  the  situation  of  Hood's  "  last  con- 
vict," who,  when  he  wished  to  hang  himself, 

"  Found  not  a  single  man  alive 
To  pull  his  legs  !" 

But  though  my  physical  condition  be  different 
from  his,  yet  the  moral  solitude  of  "  Campbell's 
Last  Man"  was  not  more  complete  than  mine, 
for  I  find  no  company  in  the  crowd,  and  the  faces 
about  me  are  but  a  gallery  of  pictures.  The 
gems  in  love's  shining  circle 

"  Have  all  dropped  away." 

The  eyes  upon  which  I  loved  to  look  have  gone 
to  gladden  some  other  sphere,  the  hands  that  I 
fain  would  clasp  are  handling  the  fishing-rod  at 
Islip,  or  bagging  woodcock  in  Purgatory ;  and  I 
move  amid  the  machinery  of  society  like  some 
solitary  pendulum  that  swings  in  gloomy  silence, 
with  no  apparent  connection  with  the  various 
wheels  which  are  ringing  and  flashing  in  the 
bright  sunshine  around  it.  Twice  a  day  do  I  vi- 
brate between  Union  Place  and  the  Battery  with 


200  THEWINTERGREEN. 

the  same  monotonous  motion ;  and  throughout 
the  whole  line  of  Broadway,  not  an  eye  is  there 
to  mark  my  swing,  not  a  hand  that  I  could  meet 
with  answering  touch,  is  outstretched  to  lend  new 
life  to  the  soulless  motion.  I  am  now  almost  re- 
conciled to  my  mysterious  doom ;  but  there  were 
long  days  and  many  that  I  struggled  against  my 
hermit  destiny.  I  saw  the  fate  which  impended 
over  me  in  anticipation,  and  as  friend  after  friend 
dropped  away  from  my  side,  and  the  bright  faces 
in  which  I  sunned  myself  were  one  by  one  with- 
drawn, I  clung  with  anxious  restlessness  to  the 
hope  that  one  —  one  —  at  least  might  yet  be  left. 
I  remember  in  that  day  of  fevered  hope,  that  the 
mere  sight  of  a  trunk  or  a  carpet  bag  behind  a 
carriage  would  strike  me  with  dismay.  What 
knew  I  but  that  the  unconscious  thing  might  be 
the  symbol  of  some  new  departure  in  which  I  was 
interested?  what  knew  I  but  that  the  vehicle 
which  then  rattled  by  me  was  bearing  off  her  that 
I  would  most  miss  from  the  rapidly  depopulating 
city.  There  were  strange  semblances  in  those 
days  about  the  decrepid  and  phantom-looking 
hacks  which  glided  by  me.  Faces  would  peer 
from  the  windows  which  I  knew  could  not  be  so 
soon  upon  the  wing,  and  a  mocking  laugh  would 


THE    LAST    MAN.  201 

ring  in  my  ears  from  voices  which  I  felt  could 
never  mock  me  thus.  Often  at  witnessing  such 
sights  and  sounds,  would  I  rush  down  to  the 
steamboat  wharf  and  there  find  a  brief  respite  from 
gloom  in  discovering  that  the  real  persons  of 
those  whose  images  had  been  thus  shadowed 
forth,  were  not  actually  on  board.  They  still 
lingered  in  the  city,  from  which  all  were  fleeing, 
and  a  few  hours  of  social  intercourse  were  yet 
left  me. 

At  last,  however,  even  these  were  gone — ay! 
only  one  besides  myself  remained!  But  such  a 
one  ! 

It  was  a  fair  girl  —  a  blithe,  happy  creature, 
with  eyes  of  heaven's  own  blue,  and  hair  all  ra- 
diant of  the  light  which  claims  the  same  birth- 
place. Gentle  she  was,  too,  as  the  airs  which 
travel  thence  upon  summer's  blandest  eve. 

\\V  \\crr  alone  —  this  fair  girl  and  I  —  alone 
amid  the  unmeaning  crowd  that  had  no  part  nor 
lot  in  thought  and  feeling  with  a  being  such  as 
her,  and  fondly  did  I  whisper  myself  that  she  lin- 
gered amid  the  desolation  for  me  alone.  She 
seemed  like  that  almost  magical  flower  which  the 
polar  discoverer  found  blooming  upon  the  icy  de- 
sert—  as  fresh  and  fair  amid  its  casing  of  ice  as 


202  THE  WINTEEGREEN. 

if  a  tropic  sun  had  warmed  it  into  being.  It 
would  redeem  the  darkest  lot  to  find  such  a  flower 
blooming  in  one's  path,  and  I  cared  not  that  the 
city  was 


-"  My  dwelling-place, 


With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister," 

so  that  I  might  see,  love,  live  for  only  her.  "  We 
met,"  we  met  often,  and  though  "  'twas  in  a 
crowd,"  yet  did  she  not  "shun  me  !"  for,  said  I 
not,  that  we  were  all  alone  in  that  crowd  ?  But 
weeks  wore  on,  and  she  too,  that  blessed  com- 
forter, was  to  be  stolen  from  me. 

I  hardly  remember  now  what  brought  the  first 
warning  to  my  heart  of  the  impending  blow.  I 
could  not  and  I  would  not  see  that  it  hung  over 
me.  Something  there  was  though  of  wearying 
of  the  town  —  a  little  talk  of  other  days  —  a  tran- 
sient memory  of  childish  sports  upon  the  river, 
and  a  mention  of  an  aunt  in  the  country. 

Vainly  I  tried  her  drooping  soul  to  raise  ;  I 
spoke  cheerfully  of  the  resources  near,  I  painted 
the  verdurous  aisles  of  Washington  Square  in 
prospect — I  tried  to  lure  her  to  the  Battery.  I 
spoke  of  Niblo's  !  She  listened — kindly,  but  not 
with  earnestness.  She  did  not  complain,  but  her 


THE   LAST   MAN.  203 

heart  was  evidently  away  to  the  green  fields  and 
murmuring  brooks  and  hanging  orchards  of  her 
kinswoman's  villa ;  there,  where  her  favourite 
cousin  (a  boy  — a  romping  boy — a  boy  of  fif- 
teen !)  claimed  her  to  share  his  sports,  what  time 
the  August  sun  withdrawn  from  shady  stream 
should  tempt  the  lazy  angler  to  the  woods. 

And  now  I  was  indeed  alone.  I  saw  the  low- 
hung  and  endless  Long  Island  wagon  drag  its 
last  length  aboard  of  the  South-Ferry  steamboat. 
I  heard  the  relentless  engine  give  its  first  pon- 
derous jar,  and  I  watched  the  pea-green  bandbox 
on  the  top  of  the  stage  until  it  became  blended 
with  objects  upon  the  opposite  shore  ;  and  then, 
as  I  mentally  exclaimed,  "  how  often  will  that 
odious  cousin  bait  his  hook  for  her  !"  I  laughed  a 
laugh — that  first  half-savage  laugh  of  the  over- 
tasked young  spirit  which  is  never  laughed  but 
once  —  I  laughed  it  then  !  and  rushed  up  White- 
hall-street. 

It  boots  not  to  tell  how  since  have  passed  my 
hours.  Mine  is  no  common  lot  —  and  the  details 
of  my  feelings  can,  therefore,  awaken  no  general 
sympathy.  Time  was  when  breakfasting  alone 
was  to  me  a  luxury  —  time  was  when  dining  with 
a  friend  was  to  me  the  height  of  enjoyment :  but 

Q2 


204  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

now  the  charm  of  the  first  has  become  so  com- 
mon,  the  pleasure  of  the  last  so  rare,  that  I  would 
share  my  meals  even  with  a  billiard-marker,  or  a 
dandyling,  to  have  aught  approaching  to  humani- 
ty so  near  me.  The  waiters,  sitting  by  the  de- 
serted  windows  of  my  hotel,  scarcely  rise  from 
their  places  when  I  enter ;  yet  I  have  not  the 
heart  to  reprove  them  for  their  want  of  respect  to 
the  last  member.  The  fawn  has  been  known  to 
make  friends  with  the  lion  when  thus  isolated 
from  all  the  rest  of  creation  —  and  besides  ven- 
turing once  or  twice  into  Wall-street,  and  sliding 
unobtrusively  past  a  loitering  broker,  I  have  found 
myself  more  than  once  wistfully  approaching  a 
sheriff's  officer.  But  it  did  not  speak  to  me  — 
and  I  slunk  away  in  faintheartedness  and  dejec- 
tion. I  do  not  think,  however,  that  there  has 
been  any  weak  surrender  to  the  gloom  which 
such  loneliness  may  well  awaken  ;  for  I  catch  at 
every  sight  and  sound  which  may  let  cheerfulness 
into  the  windows  of  my  soul.  Sometimes  I  wan- 
der in  the  suburbs,  where  the  deep  bass  notes  of 
the  swine  which  our  city  laws  have  not  yet  de- 
sparked,  awaken  a  rural  association.  Sometimes 
I  listen  to  the  shrill  tenor  of  the  swallows,  wheel, 
ing  like  lawyers  on  a  circuit,  around  the  chimneys 


THE  LAST   MAN,  205 

* 

of  the  Bridewell.  Sometimes  I  loiter  round  the 
public  gardens,  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  green 
from  their  diminutive  parterres.  But  here  there 
is  always  something  to  disturb  the  stoicism  which 
I  find  it  so  difficult  to  preserve.  I  hear  songs 
which  remind  me  of 

The  lawless  breeze  and  the  glowing  sky, 
And  bright  world  shut  from  my  languid  eye. 

"  Away,  away,  to  the  mountain's  brow"  but  serves 
to  knit  my  brow  with  care  ;  "  Some  love  to  roam," 
reminds  me  that  I  must  stay  at  home  ;  "  It's  my 
delight  of  a  shiny  night,"  only  makes  me  curse 
my  stars  —  and  when  I  hear, 

"  Oh,  Nannie,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me, 
Nor  sigh  to  leave  this  flaunting  town  ?" 

I  gnash  my  teeth  at  the  thought  that  Nannie 
could  gang  without  me,  and  leave  her  lover  to 
sigh  in  vain.  As  for  the  theatre,  with  its  Trees 
and  Groves,  and  its  expected  Woods,  Forests  and 
Meadows,  it  but  mocks  my  misery  ;  while  Barnes 
in  the  city  raises  only  a  deluding  image  of  a  cot- 
tage in  the  country.  Now  and  then  I  take  a  sort 
of  savage  pleasure  in  reading  the  advertisements 
of  country  seats  for  sale,  or  disport  my  fancy  over 


206  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

the  maps  and  prospectuses  now  so  common,  of 
new  collections  of  villas,  projected  by  some  in- 
genious persons,  who  talk  about  "  eligible  sites 
for  the  ornamental  cottage,  and  grounds  of  the  re- 
tired  gentleman,"  upon  "  nicely  levelled  lots,  in 
parallelograms  of  twenty-five  feet  by  a  hundred." 
He  who  invented  the  art  of  packing  a  quart  of 
wine  into  a  pint  decanter,  must  have  given  the 
first  hint  to  these  worthies.  Thank  heaven,  I 
have  no  such  maimed  ruralities  to  offend  my  eyes 
as  their  Procrustean  labours  would  fain  create. 
It  is  true  that  my  better  senses  are  now  all  pri- 
soned up  in  the  brick  walls  around  me ;  but  I 
would  rather  they  should  be  fettered  than  per- 
verted. My  rural  taste  may  languish  for  want 
of  nutriment  to  feed  upon,  but  better  thus  than  that 
it  should  become  vitiated  and  cocknified  from  un- 
natural aliment.  The  realms  of  fancy  are  still 
mine ;  for 

"  When  breeze  and  beam,  like  thieves  come  in, 
To  steal  me  away,  I  deem  it  sin 
To  slight  their  voice,  and  away  I'm  straying, 
Over  the  hills  and  vales  a  Maying." 

I  own  many  a  lot  in  the  fields  of  imagination, 
which,  though  of  no  marketable  value,  is  nearly 


THE   LAST    MAX.  207 

as  substantial  as  those  in  which  people  about. me 
are  speculating.  The  last  that  I  have  laid  out 
are  among  the  Adirondach  mountains,  where, 
wholly  unnoticed  by  the  learned  gentlemen  who 
have  been  tracing  the  sources  of  the  Hudson  in 
that  quarter,  I  have  accompanied  the  surveying 
party  over  many  a  romantic  tract,  where  the  ma- 
gic pencil  of  Cole  was  busied  a  year  since.  It  is 
grievous,  however,  to  retrace  my  steps  from  this 
sweet  and  roaming  track  of  my  fancy  ;  for 

"  Then  what  a  dismal,  dreary  gloom, 
Settles  upon  my  loathed  room  — 
Darker  to  every  thought  and  sense, 
Than  if  they  had  ne'er  wandered  thence." 

At  such  a  time  as  this,  I  use  my  washerwoman's 
album  as  a  sort  of  safety-valve  to  let  off  my  pent 
and  pining  musings  ;  and  the  other  day,  while 
loitering  near  the  river,  and  flinging  in  vain  upon 
the  tide  tho  weary  thoughts  that  would  ever  and 
anon  recur  to  me,  like  the  valueless  chips  which, 
when  set  afloat  by  wanton  boys,  the  waves  so 
carefully  still  return  to  their  feet,  the  last  words 
of  the  last  man  were  thus  poured  out : 


208  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

River,  oh  river !  thou  rovest  free, 

From  the  mountain  height  to  the  fresh  blue  sea  ! 

Free  thyself,  but  with  silver  chain, 

Linking  each  charm  of  land  and  main. 

From  splintered  crag,  thou  leap'st  below, 

Through  leafy  glades  at  will  to  flow — 

Lingering  now  by  the  steep's  mossed  edge — 

Loitering  now  mid  the  dallying  sedge : 

And  pausing  ever,  to  call  thy  waves 

From  grassy  meadows  and  fern-hid  caves — 

And  then,  with  a  prouder  tide  to  break 

From  wooded  valley  to  breezy  lake  : 

Yet  all  of  these  scenes,  though  fair  they  be, 

River,  oh  river !  are  banned  to  me. 

River,  oh  river  !  upon  thy  tide 
Full  many  a  freighted  bark  doth  glide  ; 
Would  that  thou  thus  couldst  bear  away 
The  thoughts  that  burthen  my  weary  day ! 
Or  that  I,  from  all  save  them,  made  free, 
Though  laden  still,  might  rove  with  thee  ! 
True  that  thy  waves  brief  life-time  find, 
And  live  at  the  will  of  the  wanton  wind, 
True  that  thou  seekest  the  ocean's  flow, 
To  be  lost  therein  for  evermo'  — 
Yet  the  slave  who  worships  at  Glory's  shrine, 
But  toils  for  a  bubble  as  frail  as  thine  ; 
But  loses  his  freedom  here,  to  be 
Forgot  as  soon  as  in  death  set  free. 


T 


THE   MISSION   BRIDE. 


BY  LUCY  HOOPKR. 

When  Mr.  Judson  first  proposed  for  his  wife,  afterward  so  well 
known  in  the  annals  of  missionary  zeal,  he  stated  very  distinctly 
both  to  herself  and  friends  the  difficulties  attending  the  enterprise, 
and  placed  in  strong  contrast  the  motives  which  should  outweigh 
them  all. 

THE  rich  deep  tones  fell  clearly 

Upon  the  summer  air, 
And  the  listeners'  hearts  were  thrilling, 

To  the  noble  speaker  there  ; — 
"  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter," 

The  father's  eye  grew  dim, 
But  woman's  cheek  such  bright  blush  wore, 

As  Love  alone  might  win. 

"  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter — 

Alas  !  that  it  were  mine 
To  shield  alike  from  care  and  pain 
Such  cherished  gift  of  thine  ; 


210  THE  WINTER  ORE  EN, 

But,  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter, 
To  leave  this  home  of  love, 

And  bear  afar  the  exile's  heart, 
At  the  call  of  God  above  ! 

14 1  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter — 

And  I  know  not  for  what  doom, 
Upon  her  future  path  and  mine, 

Alike  may  come  the  storm  ; 
But  if  her  earthly  bliss  to  guard, 

Asked  only  Love  unsleeping, 
Then  would  I  bear  upon  my  heart, 

Her  name  in  holy  keeping. 

"  But  earthly  joy  and  earthly  scenr 

No  more  my  course  may  stay, 
A  voice  upon  my  ear  hath  been, 

Its  summons*!  obey; 
And  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter, 

That  distant  path  to  share, 
Perchance  to  sooth  the  martyr's  cell, 

To  join  the  martyr's  prayer. 

"  Yea !  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter, 
In  the  golden  bloom  of  youth, 
To  bear  with  me  to  distant  lands, 
The  holy  words  of  truth  ; 


THE   MISSION   BRIDE. 

I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter, 

And  oh  !  for  lot  like  this 
To  one,  so  beautiful  and  young, 

I  bring  no  earthly  bliss. 

•'  But  the  seraph  spirit  mounteth  ;  — 

And  woman's  e'er  hath  been, 
Like  the  ministry  of  angels, 

In  each  dark  and  fearful  scene ; 
To  the  captive's  lonely  cell 

She  hath  come  with  words  of  light, 
And  the  dying  voice  hath  blessed  her 

In  the  watches  of  the  night. 

"  So  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter, 

To  tread  my  path  of  pain ; 
Yea,  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter, 

A  heavenly  crown  to  gain ; 
For  shall  the  race  of  Faith,  alone 

With  feeble  step  be  trod  ? 
No  !  I  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter, 

For  the  altar  of  thy  God!" 

And  brightly  on  the  speaker's  brow, 

Were  bent  the  eyes  he  loved, 
And  from  those  eyes  the  fervent  faith, 

By  years  so  nobly  proved, 
Was  beaming,  as  her  father  cast 

One  sigh  of  earthly  feeling, 
Then  solemnly  and  slowly  spoke, 

Unto  his  God  appealing. 


212  THE    WINTERG  KEEN. 

**  As  Mary  poured  her  precious  gifts 

Upon  the  Saviour's  head, 
So  would  I  on  that  holy  shrine, 

My  costliest  offerings  spread, 
Strengthen  this  feeble  human  heart, 

Oh!  Lord  of  Paradise! 
I  strive  not  with  thy  perfect  will, 

Take  thou,  my  Pearl  of  price!" 

Oh !  Joy  and  Grief  were  strangely  blent 

With  holy  hope  that  night, 
And  still  with  Joy  and  Grief  we  trace 

Their  path  of  onward  light, 
Joy  for  the  pledge  so  nobly  kept  — 

Grief  for  the  ties  so  riven  — 
And  holy  hope  that  every  link 

Is  bound  again  in  Heaven  ! 


THE    CHERUB'S   MISSION.* 


BY  JANE  L.  SWIFT. 

I  LEAVE  the  land  of  spirits  pure, 

And  come  to  earth  again ; 
With  healing  on  my  viewless  wings, 

With  balm  for  ev'ry  pain. 
I  seek  the  home,  where  late  they  smiled 

So  tenderly  on  me ; 
And  find  them  weeping  o'er  the  clay, 

Where  I  have  ceased  to  be. 

They  call  me  by  the  tender  names 

Familiar  to  my  ear ; 
Then,  turn  with  sick'ning  hearts  away, 

Unthinking  I  am  near. 
From  heaven's  cloudless  realms  I've  come, 

A  mission  to  fulfil  — 
To  shed  the  peace,  that  God  can  give, 

O'er  those  who  mourn  me  still. 


*  Suggested  by  the  death  of  Willets,  the  interesting  son  of  John 
tin  jH-ri^M-d  by  drowning  on  the  21st  of  April,  1843. 


214  THE  WINTER  GREEN. 

Oh  !  could  ye  see  the  infant  throng 

That  round  his  altar  stands, 
With  golden  harps  to  tune  his  praise, 

And  palms  within  their  hands  — 
Could  ye  but  see  our  white  array, 

So  free  from  spot  or  stain  ; 
Ye  would  not  call  your  loved  one  back, 

To  weep  on  earth  again. 

Could  ye  but  know  whose  arms  enfold 

Your  little  darling  now  — 
Could  ye  but  see  the  crown  of  light 

That  sparkles  on  his  brow  — 
Could  ye  but  feel  the  rapture  pure 

That  wakes  his  angel-strain  ; 
Ye  would  not  surely  call  him  back, 

To  sigh  on  earth  again. 

Could  ye  recline  within  the  shade, 

Of  our  sweet,  Eden  bowers  ; 
And  see  my  infant  playmates  wreath 

Their  little  brows  with  flowers  — 
Could  you  but  know  how  free  we  are 

From  sickness,  sin,  or  pain  ; 
Ye  would  not,  could  not  call  me  back, 

To  sin  and  death  again. 

Joy  !  joy  !  the  precious  tear-drops  flow  ! 

I've  touched  their  welling  springs ; 
And  God  has  sent  the  holy  balm 

Of  healing  on  my  wings. 


THE   CHERUB'S   MISSION.  215 

Peace  !  for  the  spirits  reconciled 

To  his  unerring  will ; 
Peace  !  to  the  hearts  that  bend,  not  break — 

That  weep,  yet  trust  Him  still. 

Ah  !  'mid  the  flight  of  weary  years, 

I  oft  to  earth  will  come ; 
To  shed  the  rays  of  heavenly  hope 

Around  my  former  home. 
I'll  watch  my  parents'  couch  beside  — 

I'll  be  with  them  in  prayer — 
Then,  bear  their  wishes  up  to  heaven, 

And  plead  those  wishes  there. 

And  when  the  cord  of  life  is  rent, 

That  separates  us  now ; 
When  Death  his  signet-seal  hath  set 

Upon  each  parent  brow  ; 
My  harp  shall  be  the  first  to  hymn 

Their  welcome  to  the  skies ; 
My  form  shall  be  the  first  to  meet, 

Their  rapture-beaming  eyes. 

Farewell,  farewell,  my  mission's  done  — 

I  have  not  come  in  vain ; 
Ye  would  not,  if  ye  could,  recall 

My  soul  to  earth  again. 
Live  on,  for  those  who  yet  remain 

To  need  your  loving  care ; 
Live  on  —  your  hearts  will  not  be  dark, 

For  God's  own  light  is  there. 

R2 


THE   ELEVENTH   HOUR. 


BY  ELIZABETH  OAKES  SMITH. 

THERE  are  no  times  nor  seasons  unto  Him, 

Who  fashioned  forth  this  fearful  wondrous  frame  ; 

The  stars  revolving,  weary  grow  and  dim, 

The  Pleiad  leaves  in  heaven  no  lingering  flame, 

Creations  spring  to  birth,  in  age  decay, 

And  as  a  scroll  the  heavens  shall  pass  away. 

Yet  He,  who  formed  all,  enthroned  in  light, 
Primal  in  being,  as  when  first  awoke, 

The  dewy  planets  in  the  morning  bright, 

And  starting  on  their  joyous  course  forth  broke 

The  choral  hymn  that  marshalled  worlds  in  space, 

He  changeth  not,  nor  knoweth  time  nor  place. 

And  as  a  point  to  Him,  man's  fleeting  life  — 
Not  by  declining  sun,  nor  changeful  moon  — 

Mark  not  by  these  his  agony  and  strife ; 

Oh  !  not  by  these  his  youth,  his  fervid  noon, 

Thronged  by  emotions  crowded  to  a  span, 

Ages  concentred  in  the  life  of  man. 


THE   ELEVENTH   HOUR.  217 

And  Thou  to  whom  all  seasons  are  the  same,  • 
Though  blindly  erring,  devious  in  our  way, 

Remember  Thou  the  weakness  of  our  frame ; 

Forgive,  though  late,  we  bow  to  thee  and  pray — 

Though  at  the  Eleventh  Hour  the  offering  be, 

Spurn  not  the  spirit,  seeking  thus  to  thee ; 

For  unto  thee,  oh  God,  a  thousand  years 

Is  as  man's  yesterday  of  sighs  and  tears  ! 


STANZAS. 

BY  EMMA  C.  EMBURY. 

'  Forgotten,  as  a  dead  man  out  of  mind."— Psalms. 

AND  is  tliis  then  the  common  lot, 

The  end  of  earthly  love  and  trust, 
To  be  by  cherished  ones  forgot, 

When  the  frail  body  sleeps  in  dust  ? 
Shall  hearts  which  now  with  love  run  o'er, 

Retain  for  us  no  deeper  trace 
Than  leaves  the  footprint  on  the  shore, 

Which  the  next  wavelet  may  efface  ? 

Shall  those  who  only  seemed  to  live 

Within  the  sunshine  of  our  smile, 
To  whom  existence  could  not  give 

A  joy  unshared  by  us  the  while  ; 
Shall  they  mid  other  joys  live  on, 

And  form  again  affection's  tie, 
When  we  from  earth's  delights  are  gone, 

Forever  hid  from  human  eye  ? 


STANZAS.  219 

Aye,  thus  it  is  th'  eternal  laws 

That  rule  our  nature  are  obeyed  — 
Not  in  mid  conflict  may  we  pause 

To  linger  long  where  Love  is  laid ; 
We  pile  the  sod  above  the  breast 

Which  pillowed  oft  our  aching  head, 
Then  turn,  and  leave  unto  its  rest 

Our  loved,  but  half-forgotten  dead. 

Tears  —  the  heart's  desolating  rain  — 

Awhile  upon  our  path  may  fall, 
But  Hope's  sweet  sunbeam  smiles  again, 

And  we  no  more  the  past  recall ; 
Anon,  the  dirge's  mournful  measure 

Is  changed  to  some  less  saddening  strain, 
And  soon  the  echoing  voice  of  pleasure 

Tells  grief  and  love  alike  were  vain. 

We  form  new  schemes  of  future  bliss, 

New  flowers  spring  up  to  cheer  our  way, 
And  scarcely  from  our  side  we  miss 

The  partners  of  life's  earlier  day. 
Alas  !  how  vain  our  noblest  feelings, 

How  idle  would  affection  seem, 
Did  not  God  give  us  bright  revealings 

Of  Life  where  Love  is  not  a  dream. 


THE    GREEN   OLD   AGE. 


BY*  JA.NE  L.  SWIFT. 

As  the  fading  sun  at  even 

Sinking  to  th'  horizon's  verge, 
Sheds  a  glow  o'er  earth  and  heaven, 

Gilding  e'en  the  ocean  surge  ; 
So  do  hopes  and  chasten'd  pleasures 

Still  illume  life's  closing  page ; 
If  the  heart  retain  its  treasures 

In  the  days  of  green  old  age. 

Memories,  that  now  are  fading 
In  the  hurried  flight  of  years  — 

Joys,  that  worldly  strife  is  shading 
With  the  ban  of  earth-born  fears — 

Will  return  —  and  cheer  the  ending 
.  Of  life's  chequer'd  pilgrimage; 

Purest  peace  and  lustre  lending 
To  the  days  of  green  old  age. 

Tears  of  childhood,  quickly  falling, 
Pearl-drops  from  a  living  spring, 


THE  GREEN   OLD   AGE. 

Sorrows  of  our  youth  recalling  — 

Slight  the  pang  these  mem'ries  bring  ! 

For  the  joys  of  childhood,  breathing 
O'er  life's  worn,  yet  hallow'd  page ; 

Hang  the  blossoms  they'  ve  been  wreathing, 
On  the  shrine  of  green  old  age. 

Ties  of  kindred  — they  may  perish—- 
Forms we  lov'd,  be  seen  no  more  — 

Still  the  heart  must  ever  cherish 
Those  it  priz'd  in  days  of  yore ; 

Lineaments  in  dust  reposing, 
Come  again  upon  life's  stage  ; 

Fair  they  seem,  as  night  is  closing 
Round  the  hopes  of  green  old  age, 

Dreams  of  love,  now  past  forever, 

Leave  their  record  writ  in  tears; 
Yet  the  future  may  not  sever 

One  strong  link  of  by-gone  years, 
Chains  of  earth  that  early  bind  us, 

Will  defy  time's  with'ring  gage  ; 
Happy,  if  the  last  link  find  us 

On  the  verge  of  green  old  age. 

Wedded  love — >the  tie  that  strengthens 

As  all  other  ties  decay ; 
How  its  sum  of  comfort  lengthens, 

As  we  journey  day  by  day. 


THE   WINTERGREEN. 

Kindly  deeds  each  wish  preventing, 
Halve  the  cares  of  pilgrimage  ; 

No  repining  —  no  repenting  — 
Mars  the  peace  of  green  old  age. 

Children's  children  round  us  springing, 

Like  a  wreath  of  early  flowers  ; 
To  the  heart  sweet  incense  bringing  — 

How  they  cheer  this  world  of  ours ! 
Soon  they'll  strive  as  we  have  striven  — 

Cares  like  ours  will  them  engage ; 
Well  —  if  good  example  given 

Make  them  bless  our  green  old  age. 

If  the  lamp  of  faith  be  burning, 

What  bright  hopes  life's  close  illume  ! 
Dust  to  kindred  dust  returning, 

Finds  no  terror  in  the  tomb. 
Calmly  to  our  rest  descending, 

We  complete  our  pilgrimage  ; 
Joy  beginning  —  sorrow  ending 

At  the  grave  of  green  old  age. 


ARE    WE   NOT  EXILES    HERE? 


BV  H-  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

Are  we  not  exiles  here  ? 
Come  there  not  o'er  us  memories  of  a  clime 
More  genial  and  more  dear 
Than  this  of  time  ? 

When  deep,  vague  wishes  prese 
Upon  the  soul  and  prompt  it  to  aspire, 
A  mystic  loneliness, 
And  wild  desire ; 

When  our  long  baffled  zeal 
Turns  back,  in  mockery,  on  the  weary  heart, 
Till  at  the  sad  appeal, 
Dismayed  we  start ; 

And  like  the  deluge  dove, 
Outflown  upon  the  world's  cold  sea  we  lie, 
And  all  our  dreams  of  love 
In  anguish  dio. 

I 


224  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

Nature  no  more  endears — 
Her  blissful  strains  seem  only  breathed  afar, 
Nor  mount  nor  flower  cheers, 
Nor  smiling  star. 

Familiar  things  grow  strange, 
Fond  hopes,  like  tendrils  shooting  to  the  air, 
Through  friendless  being  range 
To  meet  despair. 

And  nursed  by  secret  tears, 
Rich  but  frail  visions  in  the  heart  have  birth, 
Till  this  fair  world  appears 
A  homeless  earth ! 

Then  must  we  summon  back 
Blest  guides  who  long  ago  have  met  the  strife, 
And  left  a  radiant  track 
To  mark  their  life. 

Then  must  we  look  around 
On  heroes'  deeds — the  landmarks  of  the  brave, 
And  hear  their  cheers  resound 
From  off  the  wave. 

Then  must  we  turn  from  show, 
Pleasure  and  fame,  the  phantom  race  of  care, 
And  let  our  spirits  flow 
In  earnest  prayer. 


THE    MARINER'S   ORPHAN. 


BY  HANNAH  F.  GOULD. 

THAT  cold,  faithless  moon  looking  down  on  the  wave  ! 

How  dark  grows  my  heart  with  her  beaming ! 
And  yonder  she  smiles  on  the  new-covered  grave, 

While  tears  drown  my  sight  in  their  streaming. 

For  there  lies  my  father,  down,  down  in  the  deep, 
Overwhelmed  by  the  black,  heavy  billow  ! 

And  now  have  they  borne  off  my  mother,  to  sleep 
Where  damp  clods  of  earth  are  her  pillow. 

How  oft  did  she  kneel,  when  that  moon  from  above,' 
Hung  mild  o'er  a  calm,  sparkling  ocean  ; 

And  lift  her  sweet  voice  in  thanksgiving  and  love, 
To  Him  of  her  evening  devotion  ! 

And,  when  into  clouds  all  their  brightness  was  cast, 

With  looks  full  of  woe  and  imploring, 
She  bowed  like  a  reed,  at  the  rush  of  the  blast ; 

And  prayed  while  the  tempest  was  roaring. 


26  THEWINTERGREEN. 

Then,  pale  at  the  noise  of  the  storm  and  the  sea, 
While  tears  rolled,  as  crystal-drops  shining, 

She  threw  her  fond  arms  round  my  brother  and  me, 
Her  trembling  to  stay  by  their  twining. 

But,  oh  !  when  they  told  her  the  whole  fatal  tale, 

By  silence  her  anguish  was  spoken. 
She  heard  the  torn  bark  had  gone  down  in  the  gale  ; 

Then  sunk  !  for  her  heart-strings  had  broken. 

And  since,  when  I  see  the  bright  moon  beaming  clear, 
With  stars  gathered  thickly  around  her, 

I  think  of  that  night,  when  no  ray  would  appear, 
To  light  the  frail  bark  that  must  founder. 

The  sound  of  the  waves,  as  they  die  on  the  shore, 

It  fills  me  with  sadness  and  sighing: 
To  me  they  bring  back  a  dear  father  no  more  — 

They  show  me  a  mother,  when  dying. 


MY   FAMILIAR. 


BY  C.  F.  HOFFMAN. 

YES  !  My  Familiar — Sir  Reader — Socrates 
had  his  good  daemon — Brutus  his  evil  one, — 
Abhur-Ben-Mohammed  a  pair  of  them  ;  while 
Niblo  has  his  three  Diavolos ; — and  why  not  /, 
John  Smith,  my  attendant  spirit  ?  If  Nature  and 
Fortune  have  combined  to  distinguish  me  from 
other  Smiths  of  the  name  of  John — how  could 
they  dp  better  than  to  give  me  my  tutelary  genius 
— than  to  have  me  ever  attended  and  watched 
over  by  the  Schmidt-Gheist  ?  Alas  !  this  air  of 
jesting  is,  I  fear,  but  ill-feigned — a  sense  of  horror 
still  breaks  through  my  hollow  mirth,  and  goads 
my  fevered  spirit  with  strange  doubts  and  incre- 
dulities, almost  to  madness.  The  mysterious 
being  that  haunts  me,  may  after  all,  be  only  a 
brain-wrought  spectre — the  bewildering  exhala- 
tion of  a  seething  fancy.  Or,  if  indeed  he  be  a 
•  9 


228  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

living  essence  incorporal — accident — a  blind 
mischance  alone,  has,  perhaps,  connected  me 
with  his  motions  ; — and  a  score  of  my  fellow 
mortals  may,  perhaps,  share  his  mysterious  visits, 
and  suffer,  like  myself,  under  the  spell  of  his 
presence. 

The  story  of  my  troubles,  if  the  reader  is  disposed 
to  hearken  to  it,  is  this  : — I  am  a  "  man  of  cham- 
bers ;"  it  boots  not  whether  bachelor  or  widower, 
but  I  do  actually  belong  to  this  independent  and 
enviable  class  of  the  community.  My  rooms,  by 
those  who  have  drank  my  claret  and  smoked  my 
Havannas,  are  generally  allowed  to  be  the  pleas- 
antest  belonging  to  any  man  of  chambers  in  town. 
I  always  have  a  bottle  ot  Lynch's  best,  with  an 
extra  Regalia  or  two  for  an  acquaintance  ;  and  my 
particular  friends  know  where  they  can  most 
readily  get  a  glass  of  hock  and  soda,  when  the 
accessories  of  a  late  supper  have  carried  them 
unsteadily  into  the  deeper  watches  of  night.  Let 
not  the  reader  think  from  this,  however,  that  I 
am  dissipated.  No  !  though  thus  socially  dispos- 
ed towards  my  fellows,  and  fixed,  I  trust,  as  a 
man  of  chambers  for  life,  I  may  say  without  vanity 
that  I  am  more  domestic  in  my  habits  than  many 
a  housekeeper  who  is  most  admired  by  sober 


MY   FAMILIAR.  229 

wives  and  prudent  mothers.  A  week's  trouting, 
in  the  season,  at  Carman's, — a  day  or  two  with 
the  snipe  at  Fire  Island,  or  a  quiet  excursion  after 
quail  and  woodcock  in  Westchester,  are  the  only 
occasions  when  I  ever  leave  my  house.  My 
folder  is  just  where  I  left  it  in  the  last  new  novel ; 
and  the  latest  Review  lies  bent  open  upon  my 
table  at  the  very  page  where  I  have  paused  at 
finding  some  especial  matter  for  doubt  or  re  flection. 

For  years  now,  life  has  glided  on  in  this  un- 
troubled current, — the  gay  and  thoughtless,  like 
young  trout  who  rise  always  to  flies  of  the  gaudiest 
colour,  springing  often  by  me  to  catch  at  its  very 
bubbles,  while  I,  like  some  maturer  tenant  of  the 
brook,  have  loitered  contentedly  in  its  calm  and 
silent  eddies.  Fate,  however,  envious  of  such 
repose,  has  come  at  last  like  an  old  fisherman  to 
break  up  rny  unmolested  haunts. 

The  continual  changes  which  are  going  on  in 
this  ancient  city  of  my  love  drove  me  a  few  months' 
since  from  the  quarters  which  I  had  so  long 
occupied  to  my  satisfaction.  I  resisted  to  the 
last  point,  when  I  found  that  my  landlord  was 
determined  to  renovate  the  building  I  occupied, 
by  placing  a  row  of  granite  stores  in  the  basement ; 
but  it  was  all  in  vain.  I  clung  to  my  quarters 


230  THE  WINTERGREEN, 

indeed,  until,  looking  out  of  my  window  one  morn- 
ing,  I  found  the  whole  upper  part  of  the  house 
suspended  upon  a  couple  of  temporary  supports  of 
most  equivocal  thickness.  They  had  knocked 
away  some  dozen  square  yards  of  brick  wall 
beneath  me,  and  I  was  fairly  improved  out  of  the 
premises. 

Upon  looking  around  for  new  chambers,  the 
only  rooms  I  could  obtain  were  in  a  tall  house 
upon  a  side  hill,  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city ; 
where  the  inequalities  of  the  surface  enable  you 
often  to  overlook  a  whole  neighbourhood  when 
thus  situated.  The  street  was  narrow  and  dis- 
agreeable, but  I  did  not  mind  that ;  I  came  to 
live  in  the  house,  not  in  the  street — and  the  com- 
manding height  of  my  chambers  made  them  suffi- 
ciently airy.  My  books  were  again  unpacked ; 
my  ancient  sofa  extended  before  the  fire-place  ; 
my  hookah  enthroned  upon  the  mantel-piece  ;  and 
after  the  only  portrait  I  possess  had  been  hung  up 
in  the  pier,  and  a  breathing  landscape  of  Weir's, 
and  a  gem  of  Inman's,  which  I  am  fortunate 
enough  to  own,  were  suspended  in  their  proper 
lights,  I  felt  myself  once  more  settled  and  at  home. 
"  This,"  said  I  mentally,  as  Jasper  removed  the 
cloth,  and  stretching  my  legs  befere  the  fire,  I  be- 


MY  FAMILI  AR.  231 

gan  to  sip  my  solitary  Hock — "this  is  privacy 
and  seclusion — the  turmoil  of  the  busy  world  may 
rage  around  me,  but  I  have  neither  part  nor  lot 
in  its  struggles  nor  vexations — the  roar  of  its 
surges  may,  indeed,  reach  my  ear  on  this  high 
perch,  but  they  cannot  agitate  my  resting  place 
nor  affect  my  tranquillity.  I  am  in  the  midst  of  a 
crowd  where  each  is  watching  his  own  concerns 
with  an  eagerness  that  prevents  him  from  observ- 
ing his  own  neighbour  ;  and,  un watched  myself,  I 
can  in  such  a  vicinage  pursue  my  favourite  study 
of  character  without  molestation." 

As  these  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind,  I 
naturally  raised  my  eyes  to  the  window,  to  view 
the  general  appearance  of  the  neighbourhood  I  was 
thus  mentally  eulogizing.  My  rooms  were  in  the 
rear  of  the  building,  and,  looking  round,  a  wilder- 
ness of  houses  seemed  clustered  near,  the  roofs  of 
which,  from  their  being  upon  a  lower  plane  than 
was  that  wherein  I  lived,  were  generally  brought 
upon  an  immediate  line  with  my  windows.  I 
was  sufficiently  annoyed  to  find  my  position  thus 
commanded ;  but  what  was  my  concern  and 
vexation  to  see  a  person  coolly  reconnoitring  it 
from  the  hostile  eminence — yes  !  as  I  live,  there 
lay  upon  the  flat  modern  roof  of  a  house  opposite, 


232  THE  WINTERGREEN. 

the  figure  of  a  man — basking,  as  it  were,  in  the 
mild  autumnal  sun,  while  he  amused  himself  by 
looking  as  coolly  into  my  apartment  as  if  he  were 
examining  the  cage  of  a  menagerie.  There 
were  neither  blinds  nor  shutters  to  the  room,  and 
it  seemed  impossible  to  exclude  the  gaze  of  the 
fellow.  I  gave  him  a  look  that  ought  to  have 
rolled  him  into  the  gutter,  if  it  really  reached 
him ;  but  it  did  not  even  make  him  alter  his 
position  upon  the  leads.  I  tried  another  with  the 
same  effect,  though,  as  Colonel  Crockett  would  say, 
it  was  a  grin  that  must  have  taken  the  paint  off 
the  spot,  if  it  struck  the  roof  near  him.  The  calm 
stare  with  which  he  answered  it,  told  at  once  that 
it  was  impossible  to  bring  the  wretch  to  action 
that  way.  It  was  a  siege  he  meditated,  and  he 
had  no  idea  of  risking  anything  by  meeting  me 
in  a  mere  sally. 

Provoked  beyond  endurance  at  such  imperti- 
nence, and  provoked  at  myself  at  being  so  pro- 
voked, I  seized  my  hat  in  a  fit  of  vexation  and 
sallied  out  in  the  street.  A  walk  on  the  Battery 
cooled  my  feelings,  and  the  infinite  diversity  of 
objects  upon  the  bay,  which  a  glorious  sunset 
burnished  into  gold,  gave  a  new  turn  to  my  ideas. 
I  continued  walking  long  after  the  veil  of  twilight 


MY   FAMILIAR.  233 

had  stolen  the  purple  heights  of  Staten  Island, 
and  the  storied  shores  of  Communipaw,  from  view. 
The  evening  was  so  still  that  I  fancied  I  could 
almost  hear  the  thick-throated  chuckle  of  the 
clam-catching  negroes  who  yet  linger  in  that 
singular  fastness  of  old  Dutch  peculiarities,  gurg- 
ling over  the  calm  water  like  voices  from  another 
planet :  and  soothed  by  the  tranquillity  that  reigned 
around  me,  I  at  last  returned  to  my  chambers  in 
a  mood  so  genial,  that  I  retired  for  the  night 
wholly  forgetful  of  every  source  of  irritation. 

If  there  is  any  hour  in  the  whole  day  when  I 
really  do  take  comfort,  it  is  that  when  in  dressing, 
gown  and  slippers  I  sit  with  a  very  mild  segar 
over  my  cup  of  coffee  and  newspaper  at  breakfast. 
I  don't  think  that  any  thing  in  the  world  can  make 
me  form  an  engagement  for  any  moment  before 
eleven  ante -meridian,  lest  the  perfect  luxury  of 
that  hour  should  be  in  some  wise  trenched  upon ; 
and  yet  there  is  no  hour  of  the  day  when  my 
benevolence  is  more  expansive,  and  when  my 
plans  for  bettering  the  condition  of  the  whole 
human  race  are  more  active.  The  philanthropy 
of  Howard  himself  though  would  have  been  turned 
into  hatred  of  his  species,  had  his  gentle  nature 
been  practised  upon  as  mine  was  at  this  moment. 


234  THE    WINTERGREEN. 

I  was  just  tenderly  turning  over  a  very  delicate 
muffin  with  my  fork,  pondering  whether  I  should 
coquette  with  another  piece,  or  swallow  my  coffee 
and  commence  upon  the  segar,  when  my  eyes 
rested  upon  that  infernal  face  glowering  upon  me 
from  a  dormer-window  opposite.  It  was  the 
same  imperturbable  rascal  who  had  fixed  his  evil 
eye  upon  me  the  afternoon  before.  He  looked 
and  I  looked — but  where  was  the  use  of  flinging 
look  for  look  with  such  a  creation  as  that  ?  His 
fixed  and  stony  glance  had  no  effort  in  it,  and  yet 
I  knew  that  there  was  speculation  in  his  eyes, 
for  I  felt  their  searching  gaze  all  over  my  body. 
It  was  horrible,  methought,  to  be  subject  the  live- 
long day  to  such  an  influence. — Nay,  I  thought  I 
should  go  mad  with  vexation  at  the  idea  of  a 
single  hour  being  past  in  this  unwelcome  com- 
munion with  a  stranger ;  and  when  that  hour 
was  the  one  of  all  others  in  the  whole  twenty- 
four  which  I  must  wish  to  call  my  own,  to  have 
it  so Zounds !  the  thought  was  past  endu- 
rance.—It  was********** 

I  know  not  how  I  got  through  that  agitating 
and  most  miserable  day — but  I  did  survive  it ; 
nay,  more,  I  saw  it  followed  by  another  and  ano- 
ther, each  marked  by  the  same  causes  of  disquiet, 


MY   FAMILIAR.  -235 

until  now,  resigned  to  my  fate  but  not  hardened 
to  its  endurance,  I  am  become  but  the  shadowy 
memorial  of  what  I  once  was.  My  strange 
watcher,  indeed,  no  longer  fixes  his  withering 
regards  on  me  as  at  first,  but  I  can  never  look 
from  my  window  without  seeing  him  walk  up  and 
down  the  roofs,  and  along  the  gutters  of  the  houses 
opposite — scarce  a  minute  in  the  day  but  his 
person  or  his  shadow  flits  by  my  window,  and 
falls  like  a  blight  over  any  sunshiny  moment  that 
may  be  breaking  upon  me.  Even  at  night  I  am 
never  sure  that  I  am  alone.  Often  by  the  clear 
moonlight  I  see  my  unaccountable  familiar  stalk- 
ing along  the  eaves  or  climbing  the  gables  of  the 
neighbourhood,  and  pausing  ever  and  anon  to 
throw  a  penetrating  glance  within  my  casement. 
Nay,  when  there  is  nothing  but*the  stars  to  light 
his  eccentric  path,  his  dark  figure  will  appear 
suddenly  drawn  against  the  horizon,  so  erect  and 
motionless  that  I  sometimes  mistake  it  for  a 
chimney,  until  one  of  the  arms  is  raised  as  if 
pointing  toward  where  I  am  sitting.  Sometimes 
I  behold  him  pacing  up  and  down  the  leads  with 
agitated  strides,  as  if  impatient  to  overcome  the 
space  between  us,  and  thrust  himself  still  more 
closely  upon  my  intimacy,  while  again  he  appears 


236  THEWINTERGREEN. 

to  be  roving  from  roof  to  roof  without  any  object 
whatever.  His  attitudes  are  then  grotesque  in 
the  extreme — continually  his  steps  will  approach 
the  very  edge  of  the  eaves,  and  then  suddenly, 
checking  his  rapid  movement,  he  will  pause, 
bending  over  the  precipitous  heights  as  if  about 
to  plunge  upon  the  destruction  that  yawns  beneath. 
A  thrill  of  horror  has  more  than  once  seized  me 
at  the  moment  when  apparently  I  was  thus  about 
to  be  relieved  of  my  persecuting  companion — and 
then  again  as  his  swaying  form  became  once 
more  erect,  and  with  steady  steps  he  retired  from 
the  giddy  verge,  I  could  fancy  his  withering  laugh 
ringing  in  my  ears,  at  having  practised  so  success- 
fully upon  my  sympathies.  But  why  should  I 
thus  harrow  longer  those  of  my  readers  ?  Singular 
as  is  my  fate,  I  have  learnt  in  a  measure  to  en- 
dure it — aye,  as  the  worried  wolf  endures  the 
toils  that  waste  his  vigour  away  by  driblets.  I 
find  myself  by  some  strange  combination  of 
chances  subjected  to  a  peculiar  intelligence — 
placed  beneath  an  eye,  which,  though  probably 
mortal  like  mine  own,  is  still  fixed  upon  me  in 
ceaseless  watchfulness.  I  am  the  slave  and 
victim  of  an  ever  vigilant  inquisition.  The  victim, 
I  say  ;  for  though  philosophy  may  tell  me  that 


MY    FA  MIL  I  AH.  237 

the  sleepless  spectator  of  my  every  action  and 
movement  cannot  penetrate  into  the  secrets  of 
my  soul — yet  my  heart  somehow  seems  never  to 
beat  so  freely,  nor  to  hold  the  same  communion 
with  my  brain,  since  another  has  become  privy 
to  each  act  that  volition  may  prompt.  The 
winged  eye  that  followed  the  doomed  sachem,  in 
Indian  story,  was  not  more  blighting  in  its  glances 
than  are  the  looks  of  my  remorseless  sentinel. — 

The  laughing  demon  at  the  banquet  of .     By 

heavens  !  My  Familiar  is  at  this  moment  glower- 
ing upon  me  through  that  window,  and  I  can  no 
more. 


THE    DEW-DROP   AND    LILY. 


BY  G.  ALVAN  HOWARD. 


'TwAS  verdant  Jane  ; — the  evening  air, 

Leaving  awhile  the  chrystal'd  cave, 
Stole  laughingly  forth  from  its  drowsy  lair 

To  dip  its  wing  in  the  rippling  wave, 
And  frolic  away  the  vesper  hour, 
With  the  dimpling  spring,  and  the  fragrant  flower. 
The  stars  that  jewel'd  the  Spirits'  way, 
Faded  before  the  moon's  bright  ray  — 
Stealing  silently  one  by  one  away, — 
As,  half  the  maiden,  half  the  queen, 
She  blushing  rose  the  hills  between ; 
And  still,  with  modest  firmness  trod 

Steadily  onward  to  her  throne, 
'Till  her  silvery  light  on  all  abroad 

Like  a  glance  of  conscious  power  was  thrown  ; 
And  the  azure  realm  of  the  cloudless  sky 
Brighten'd  beneath  her  gentle  eye  ; 
While  earth,  from  lakelet,  rill,  and  main, 
Gave  timidly  back  her  smiles  again. 


THE   DEW-DROP   AND   LILY.  239 

Touched  by  her  light,  the  trembling  grove 

Cast  on  the  sward  a  deeper  shade  ; 

Like  the  quiet  sadness  ever  made 
(Shadows  dark  from  the  light  above,) 
In  the  earnest  hearts  of  those  that  love. 

Studding  the  plain,  bright  flowers  were  seen, 
Twining  themselves  with  the  blended  green ; 
A  brilliant  band  of  rivals  they, 
With  graceful  forms  and  vestures  gay ; 
Spreading  each  one  its  tiny  bell, 

And  breathing  a  perfum'd  witchery  up, 
To  meet  the  dews  that  sparkling  fell, 
And  lure  them  into  its  scented  cup. 
One  glittering  drop,  as  it  left  the  sky, 

And  hovered  down  on  its  silvery  wing, 
Sought  with  a  wandering  glance  to  spy 

By  rippling  rill,  or  welling  spring, 
Its  favourite  bloom  ;  and  many  a  one 

Trembled  and  blush'd,  as  his  brilliant  eye 
Rested  awhile  on  her  alone, 
Bending  modestly  down  while  he  lingered  nigh. 

With  simple  grace,  in  a  little  dell, 

Its  beauty  but  half  revealed, 
A  delicate  lily  raised  its  bell, 

And  its  sweets  from  the  zephyr  concealed. 
Thither  the  sparkling  wanderer  flew, 

For  her  pure  and  innocent  loveliness 
Was  a  greater  charm  to  the  spotless  dew, 

T2 


THE  WINTERGREEN. 

Than  a  gaudy  bloom,  and  a  flaunting  grace. 
Did  she  yield  consent  when  he  gently  sued 
To  cheer  with  his  love  her  solitude  ? 
Not  a  word,  I  trow,  did  the  fair  one  say  ; 

But  he  caught  the  glance  of  her  modest  eye, 
As  she  timidly  turned  her  head  away, 

And  waited,  I  ween,  no  bolder  reply. 
O,  happy  was  he  while  nestling  there  ! 

For  he  gave  not  a  thought  to  the  morning  hour, 
When  he  must  leave,  for  the  realms  of  air, 

The  verdant  earth,  and  his  beautiful  flower  ; 
But  sweetly  whiled  the  hours  away, 

With  answering  smile,  and  words  that  stray, 

And  cease  at  times,  in  rapt  delay. 
Telling  her  tales  of  his  wanderings  wide 

On  the  wings  of  the  wind  ;  on  the  wild  rushing  tide ; 
In  the  still,  lucid  stream,  gliding  through  the  dark  glade, 

Or  silently  stealing  along  the  green  lea ; 
Of  his  leap  from  the  hills  in  the  foaming  cascade ; 

And  his  eddying  dive  to  the  depths  of  the  sea. 
Of  many  a  bright  and  vernal  land, 
Where  flowers  in  beauty  and  pride  expand, 

Of  stately  form,  and  lasting  bloom, 
In  gorgeous  hues  of  beauty  drest, 
With  purple  robe,  and  golden  crest, 

And  petals  rich  in  a  sweet  perfume. 
And  she  timidly  listened  to  hear  him  swear, 

With  all  their  queenly  pride  and  show, 
He  thought  not  one  of  them  half  so  fair 

As  she  who  listens  to  him  now ! 


THE  DEW-DROP   AND   LILY.  241 

And  soon  the  little  flatterer  knew 

The  innocent  flower  did  love  him  well ; 
Closer  her  snowy  cup  she  drew, 

And  prayed  him  ever  with  her  to  dwell, 

Shielded  from  harm  in  that  verdant  dell. 
Till  he  fondly  swore  he  never  would  leave 
So  sweet  a  flower  for  him  to  grieve. 

Alas  !  his  vows  were  all  in  vain  — 

E'er  the  hour  returned  again 
The  light  breeze  came  from  its  gladsome  play 

With  the  frolicsome  waves  of  the  ruffled  sea ; 
Over  the  lovers  he  wing'd  his  way, 

And,  mischief-mov'd,  in  sportive  glee, 
Kiss'd  the  unwilling  flower  —  the  dew 
Shook  from  its  clasping  bell,  and  flew 

Away,  the  laughter-loving  gale, 

To  tell  some  other  flower  the  tale, 
Nor  cared  that  Flora's  pet  did  mourn 
In  silent  grief  for  her  lover  gone. 

The  stars  twinkle  brightly  as  ever  above  ; 

The  flowers  on  Earth  are  as  gay ; 
The  dews  are  as  bright ;  and  the  light  zephyrs  rove 

With  the  fountains  and  flowers  at  play ; 
But  lonely,  and  sad,  from  that  hour,  'tis  said, 
The  lily-bell  never  has  raised  its  head. 


THE    PILGRIM   TURNETH    HIS    BACK 
UPON  THE  WORLD. 


BY  ERNEST  HELFENSTEIN. 

I  PASS  before  them  cold  and  lone, 

I  ask  no  smile,  I  claim  no  tear, 
And  like  some  form  of  chiselled  stone, 

Doomed  words  of  mockery  to  hear ; 
To  meet  with  eyes  that  yield  no  ray, 

No  touch  that  might  the  life. pulse  wake, 
No  tone  that  feeling  might  betray, 

No  self  forgotten  for  its  sake  ; 

So  pass  they  all,  and  it  is  welH 

I  would  not  they  should  read  the  mind 
Where  hidden  tenderness  may  dwell 

Like  gem  in  icy  cave  confined ; 
I  would  not  every  eye  should  read 

What  one  alone  should  ever  know  ; 
One,  only  one  by  fate  decreed, 

To  bid  those  icy  fetters  flow. 


THE  PILGRIM  TURNETH   HIS   BACK.  ETC.    243 

They  deem  that  changeful,  struggling  still 

For  that  nor  time,  nor  earth  can  give, 
Misled  by  fancy's  aimless  will, 

I  in  the  cold  Ideal  live  — 
Oli,  it  is  well,  for  holier  far, 

Is  all  I  cherish  thus  apart  — 
Pure  as  the  brightness  of  a  star, 

Deep  as  the  fountains  of  the  heart. 


THE    DE  VOTED.* 

BY    ELIZABETH    M.    CHANDLER. 

STERN  faces  were  around  her  bent, 

And  eyes  of  vengeful  ire, 
And  fearful  were  the  words  they  spake, 

Of  torture,  stake,  and  fire  : 
Yet  calmly  in  the  midst  she  stood, 

With  eye  undimm'd  and  clear, 
And  though  her  lip  and  cheek  were  white, 

She  wore  no  sign  of  fear. 


*  It  was  a  beautiful  turn  given  by  a  great  lady,  who  being  asked 
where  her  husband  was,  when  he  lay  concealed  for  having  been 
deeply  concerned  in  a  conspiracy,  resolutely  answered  that  she  had 
hidden  him.  This  confession  caused  her  to  be  carried  before  the 
governor,  who  told  her  that  naught  but  confession  where  she  had 
hidden  him,  could  save  her  from  the  torture.  "  And  will  that  do?" 
said  she.  "  Yes,"  replied  the  governor,  "  I  will  pass  my  word  for 
your  safety,  on  that  condition."  "Then,"  replied  she,  "I  have 
hidden  him  in  my  heart,  where  you  may  find  him." 


THE   DEVOTED.  245 

"  Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  ?"  they  said  ; 

A  half-form'd  smile  of  scorn, 
That  curled  upon  her  haughty  lip, 

Was  back  for  answer  borne  ; — 
"  Where  is  thy  traitor  spouse  ?"  again, 

In  fiercer  tones  they  said, 
And  sternly  pointed  to  the  rack, 

All  rusted  o'er  with  red ! 

Her  heart  and  pulse  beat  firm  and  free, 

But  in  a  crimson  flood, 
O'er  pallid  lip,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 

Rush'd  up  the  burning  blood  ; 
She  spake,  but  proudly  rose  her  tones, 

As  when  in  hall  or  bower, 
The  haughtiest  chief  that  round  her  stood 

Had  meekly  own'd  their  power. 

"  My  noble  lord  is  placed  within 

A  safe  and  sure  retreat" — 
"  Now  tell  us  where,  thou  lady  bright, 

As  thou  wouldst  mercy  meet, 
Nor  deem  thy  life  can  purchase  his — 

He  cannot  'scape  our  wrath, 
For  many  a  warrior's  watchful  eye 

Is  placed  o'er  every  path. 

"  But  thou  mayst  win  his  broad  estates, 

To  grace  thine  infant  heir, 
And  life  and  honour  to  thyself, 

So  thou  his  haunts  declare." 


246  THE   WINTERGREEN. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart ; 

Her  eye  flash'd  proud  and  clear, 
And  firmer  grew  her  haughty  tread — 

"  My  lord  is  hidden  here  ! 

"  And  if  ye  seek  to  view  his  form, 

Ye  first  must  tear  away, 
From  round  his  secret  dwelling-place, 

These  walls  of  living  clay  !" 
They  quail'd  beneath  her  haughty  glance, 

They  silent  turn'd  aside, 
And  left  her  all  unharm'd  amidst 

Her  loveliness  and  pride ! 


THE    SPRIG    OF    WINTERGREEN. 


BY  C.  F.   HOFFMAN. 


IT  grew  not  in  the  golden  clime 

Where  painted  birds,  in  bowers  as  gay, 
Their  notes  on  Tropic  breezes  chime, 

While  Nature  keeps  her  holiday ! 
'Neath  northern  stars  its  leaflets  first 

Expanded  to  the  wooing  air, 
And,  in  the  lonely  wild-wood  nurst, 

It  learn'd  the  northern  blast  to  bear. 

Transplanted  from  its  simple  home  — 

By  rocky  dell  or  Wind-swept  hill  — 
Like  birds  in  stranger  climes  that  roam, 

And  keep  their  native  wood-notes  still  — 
Still  in  its  glossy  verdure  dressed, 

It  blooms,  unchanged  with  change  of  scene, 
An  emblem  on  its  wearer's  breast 

Of  Truth  and  Purity  within. 


YB  11627 


918165 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


